


Thy Songs Were Made

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [29]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Corellian Worldbuilding and Mythology, Families of Choice, Genderfluid Character, Love, Multi, Polyamory then and now, Staying in the Light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-11-27 03:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Two different Ages of Uncertain Paths. A thousand generations apart. Two powerful women and their swordmates, their opponents, and those unknown, steer their way along those uncertain and oftentimes divergent paths. Paths that become more certain as they attempt to build the light and keep the darkness at bay in their own times.





	1. Prologue: The Queen

**Author's Note:**

> **In the First Age of Uncertainty** -
> 
> Inasia, the First Covenant-Hope of Mainside on the Elder Brother (Corellia)  
Taliesin Arten, the Prime-Link; the one who Ranges in the Shadows.  
Danwyn, the Second—the Healer  
Delae, the Third— the Thinker  
Terias, the Fourth—the Paladin  
Lenatus, The Tarnished Link—The Untrusted Other. The Talker
> 
> **In the Second Age of Uncertainty** -
> 
> Ahsoka Tano, the Prime Link—the Fulcrum. The one in the shadows.  
Bryne, 500th Covenant of Corellia  
Dani Faygan, the Second —the Electarine-Caretaker, also known by the codename of Ishta, the Seductress, one of the Conquerors of the Nine Hells  
Nola Vorserrie, the Third —the Seoladen, or Conduit  
Meglann Florlin, the Fourth —the apprentice, also known as Ina, the Hammer, another of the Nine Hells.  
Lassa Rhayme, The Tarnished Link—the Trusted Other  
Delilah Sal, The Tarnished Link—the Untrusted Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Queen reflects on Fulcrum and her new cell—one now formed into an ancient, half-mythological bond.

**The First Festival Month of the Year 7963 CRC  
Alderaan**

Breha Organa looks up from her datapad as the door to her study opens. She smiles before she even looks up, knowing that only two people would be admitted without a knock. She rises as Flori Laken steps in and bows, a warm smile on her face as Bail walks in. 

As always when she first sees him enter a room, the pulmonodes in her chest give a slight paradiddle.. She knows that this is her imagination; the electromechanical organs are always precisely calibrated, but the possibility always warms her. She winks at Flori as she sees the soft look at their byplay. Her Handmaiden starts, then flushes. She bows hastily and exits the room. 

Bail waits until the door closes then walks over to the desk. He places his knuckles on the rich burlwood surface, then extends his face to hers. Their lips touch, then linger for what feels like all too brief a moment. 

As they break apart, Breha sees the troubled look in his dark eyes. She takes a deep breath, then nods briefly. She walks from around the desk and allows him to pull her over to the couch. As they both approach the couch, he looks around, as if anyone else would be in her study. She smiles at the endearing habit as he pulls her down and back against his chest. She feels the steady heartbeat against her back as he wraps his arms around her.

Their breathing falls in sync, even her electromechanical version. She doesn’t dare ask, allowing him to broach the reason for the troubled look. As she allows him his moment, she reflects on the last five years and the changes the fall of the Republic had brought. The deaths of dear friends and protectors of the Republic’s peace and justice, as well as a permeating fear and darkness spreading in the galaxy. Moments of sporadic light as well. An imperious little girl, now a part of them, growing into their family— the center of their universe. 

Some light, but more times that they see each other with troubled looks in their eyes

Breha sighs. She feels Bail’s warm hand move to the back of her neck, under the ornate upswept hairstyle. She shivers as his thumb plays over the slight protrusion of one vertebra, just above the neck of her gown. She feels it stop, the thumb curling slightly against her skin. She takes a deep breath, knowing the signs of worry in her Senator. 

“Which one is it? Ahsoka?” she asks, not bothering with a codename as she feels his head touch the crown of her hairstyle, as she gently moves her head back. I’m here, the move says, in their shared, unspoken language. 

He smiles gently against her hair. “None of ours. But kind of related.”

Breha waits patiently, giving him time. 

“Shyla Merricope has disappeared. She left Coruscant, supposedly on a mission to meet with a Hutt on the Smuggler’s Moon,” he says. “The Corellians say she hasn’t checked in in several days.”

He falls silent, until she asks quietly, “What is it, Bail?”

“Before she went to Coruscant, for the Zeltron Senator’s installation, she was on Zeltros for several weeks. The Corellians won’t say for what, but I’m guessing that she was being healed from injuries that she received in the _poisoning_.”

Breha notices the odd emphasis on the word describing the attempt on the former Corellian chief of state’s life on Corellia. She files it for a later question.

“Are the Corellians looking for her?” she does ask. 

Bail smiles. “Yeah. Bryne’s poking around on Corellia, but he can’t leave the Eldest Brother for awhile. Something about social engagements to establish his bonafides to the title.” The smile turns more devilish. “Or at least that’s what he’s telling everyone.”

Breha laughs. “That boy’s gonna break something, someday,” she says in an exaggerated imitation of Draq’ Bel Iblis’s drawl. They share a brief spate of laughter at the Covenant’s expense. 

“I think that we should help them,” Bail says. Breha eyes him curiously. Years of marriage, of examining every facial expression, every smile, tell her that he is unsure. She prompts him, as she always had, when wrestling with a problem. Sometimes from an opposing viewpoint.

“Why?” she asks. “We’re not even sure that Merricope is going to take Draq’s place as one of the ‘anointed’,” she elaborates, using their private term for one involved in the embryonic resistance, who is aware of Fulcrum’s identity. 

“I know,” Bail replies. She feels him smile against her head as he realizes what she is doing. She feels him hold her tightly against him in appreciation as he gathers his thoughts. “Draq’ did tell me that after she initially agreed to take over representation to the movement for Corellia, she began to get cold feet. She thinks that she’ll be less risk to other people if she’s merely working as a go-between with the Hutts.”

Breha remains silent for a moment, then says, bluntly, “I think that’s a load of poodoo. What’s she afraid of? She was head of state of one of the galaxy’s largest economies during a tumultuous time. I think she can handle her responsibilities.” Her eyes narrow a bit. “I think that she could be a valuable addition to the movement,” she says, “as an ex-Republic planetary official. One with no official ties.”

She shifts in his arms and lays her head on her chest, so that she can look up at him. She can see the servos turning as he charges the problem head on, much like he had on the boloball fields. “There’s something else going on. I’m not sure what. This whole extra medical treatment with the Zeltrons speaks of some deeper issues. But,” he continues, “Draq’ agrees with you. But he didn’t want to push her into something she felt like she wasn’t up to. He doesn’t have an official position as he did before. He feels that private concerns on Corellia—like their new Foundation and Whyren’s Ancient—would be a better route, rather than CEC with its ties to the Empire.”

“So what can we do?” Breha asks. She moves her hands up, inside his coat, wishing she could feel the warmth of his skin on her hands

“Nola’s contacted us, asking if Ahsoka can get involved. I’d already sent her to Nar Shaddaa.” His eyes grow distant. “I wasn’t sure how I felt about Shyla being there on her own.”

Breha nods. “How’s our former Hand doing in her new role?”she asks, changing the subject. 

Bail returns her nod. “I think she’s doing fine. Draq’s says that she’s a pain in his ass, but she’s doing good work in lining up ships for the future, as well as the philanthropic end of helping refugees. She doesn’t exactly have a head for business, but she’s able to navigate a great deal of nuance in this. I think she’s relieved that she feels like she’s doing actual work, rather than working as the handler for everyone and sitting at home worrying. She’s enjoying being the conduit between the Corellians, Fulcrum, and us. Not really much different than what she was doing, but I think she feels less of a responsibility of holding Ahsoka’s life in her hands, while being unable to take direct action.” He stops. Breha can feel his guilt and sadness radiating through their touch.

“How’re she and Ahsoka doing?” Breha asks. 

It takes him more than a moment to respond. In the interval of time, Breha lifts her right hand to his cheek, her thumb playing in the neat strands of the beard on his chin. 

He smiles at her touch, as if grateful for the time to form his answer. “I think that it’ll take time. It’s more on Nola’s part than Ahsoka’s. Ahsoka’s giving her space for the guilt to recede, the guilt of keeping Covenant and Ahsoka’s existence from each other. The thing is, I think Ahsoka should push a bit. Nola’s probably afraid to talk to her more about it.”

Neither of them mention their own parts in this concealment. Fear of what had happened to Ahsoka’s master—fear of her own closeness and similarity to Anakin Skywalker, as well as fear of a certain knowledge of their own daughter had led Bail to enforce the suppression of that existence. 

Breha sighs. _There’s no need to mention it. We’ve beat ourselves up enough about it. Especially Bail._

She thinks of Nola’s own fears. Fear of additional loss, of getting too close, after the losses of her Queen and fellow Handmaidens. The loss of her own child.

_Fear of loving_, comes unbidden to her mind.

“I think that you should allow Ahsoka to get more involved. I’m afraid that with what Shyla knows, if she’s been captured, could prove dangerous for us.” She looks into Bail’s dark eyes. “Although it means that Ahsoka and Bryne didn’t get too much time together after their last misadventure.”

Neither of them mention what that misadventure had been, as no one had shared any information about their time on Felucia.

Bail laughs. “It’s good that great minds think alike, my Queen. Already done.” He reaches down and kisses her. She closes her eyes at the sensation of his kiss. There is a knock at the door. 

She closes her eyes and slumps her forehead against his chest. After a moment, she moves up to the opposite side of the couch. He smiles at her and straightens his tunic. 

“Come,” she says. 

Flori walks in once again, an apologetic look on her crimson features, her blue eyes sad at the interruption. Breha gives her a warm smile and shakes her head. Her smile grows broader as she focuses on the young woman who enters the room behind the Handmaiden. She notices Bail’s warm smile mirroring her own.

Meglann Florlin stands in front of them, her thin body braced at attention. Breha’s eyes soften at she looks her up and down; at the rare dress uniform that she wears. A medium blue tunic with a choker collar and a pair of gray trousers. Silver trim and a stylized collar decoration of candlewick leaves, also in silver lace, are the only adornment on the uniform, the dress uniform of a Household squadron of the Alderaani Naval Defense and Consular Security Forces. A uniform that signifies that she is entrusted to bear arms in the presence of the Royal Family. Her rank plaque is placed precisely on her chest; her peaked cap rests under her left arm, at the regulation angle.

Pride fills Breha’s mind as her eyes sting.

Meglann’s bronze curls are mostly tamed in a tight queue that rests between her shoulder blades; her eyes still sparkle, in spite of the decorum. Her pale skin colors in a self-conscious blush as she bows her head. 

“Begging your pardon, your Majesty, Viceroy,” Meglann says. “I’ve received a message from Dani. She’s requesting my help in a certain matter.” Breha smiles at the mention of another mentor for Meglann. The daughter of one of their oldest friends. A certain Corellian Dragon.

“One of our contacts in the Outer Rim, has suddenly gone dark. It’s not like her.”

“Rhayme,” Bail says. Meglann nods. “Does this happen often?” he asks. His mouth quirks up in a smile. “She _is_ a pirate, after all.”

Meglann smiles. “I know, sir. But she and Ahsoka keep in close contact.” She looks down. “So do I, now that she thinks I’m a little bit more than useless.” The smile turns to a grin. “Dani, not so much. But at least they’re not trying to stab each other.”

Breha sees Bail’s eyebrow raise at that. “I don’t think I’ll ask,” he says. 

“I’ve been reading up a bit on this little association that you all seem to have,” Breha says. “Your grandmother—the Archivist of the Electoral Council gave me a good text. Is Rhayme one of your swordmates?”

Both Bail and Meglann stare at her, at her use of the term. Bail recovers first, smiling. Meglann nods. “She’s a possible candidate for one of the Links of the Covenant Chain. I believe her role might be that of the Trusted Other.”

Breha is silent. “That implies that there might be an Untrusted Other?” she asks. 

Meglann joins her in the silence, a tooth worrying her lip. Breha sees Bail grin at the familiarity of the gesture, from one who was raised to be an apex predator, among other things. “Yes,” she says. “There is.” She glances at Flori, who is listening calmly. “It’s all kind of new to us, your Majesty. The Affirmation hasn’t been invoked in about a thousand generations.

She smiles. “We protect the Covenant, as he protects us. It may be a bit different now, since he considers the Prime-Link as more important in the grand scheme of things.” Her expression grows wistful. “Ahsoka, of course, would dispute that,” Meglann finishes.

Bail looks at Breha with something approaching hope. Whatever they called it—no matter what mythological origin it has, the Links, as well as the ones they call the Hells, represent the first steps in more security for Ahsoka. Something they had been hoping for, since they had brought the Corellians into the circle. Bre sighs. Maybe even something more for her. Something they’d never expected for Fulcrum. 

A family of sorts—spread out all over the galaxy as they were.

Breha sighs as Bail rises from the couch. He looks down at her with something like longing. His head moves from side to side in a tiny, almost unnoticeable movement. He speaks, keeping his eyes on her. “We’ll go make plans, Ensign. But we may need you to help Fulcrum as well with another matter. One that’s for your grandmother’s world as well,” he says. He grins, then ignoring the two young women, reaches down and kisses his Queen, for just a tiny bit longer than propriety calls for. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Breha sees Meglann and Flori look at one another and smile. Flori reaches out and touches Meglann’s free hand, taking it in hers for a brief squeeze.

Bail looks down at her. “We’ll continue our meeting at a later time, your Majesty, if I may be excused?” She nods, giving him a look of promise—a look for him alone.

A look that says that their meeting might be behind locked doors, with an armed guard outside. 

Or a fierce Zeltron Handmaiden.

Breha watches the door that closes behind Meglann and Bail. She sighs then motions at Flori to sit in the chair next to the door.

_Duty_.

She walks over to the desk and stares at the screens. She shakes her head, picking up her datapad. She moves back to the couch and sits, scrolling to her bookmark. A design of a chain with five links in silver; with five silver four-armed stars in between appears. She realizes, for the first time, that one of the links in the symbol, the one on the outside is slightly tarnished. One that might signify that pirate, as well as any other that might be slightly on the outside of this inner circle. 

Breha begins to read. Of an ancient Age of Uncertain Paths and the ones who trod that path. A time similar to one that had just been declared on Corellia—that world of explorers and gamblers. A time with new protectors treading that path

Risk takers, above all else.

* * *

_Hear now, the story of our Covenant. The one who led us from one path to another. _

_She was no god, with that accompanying perfection. She was a woman, a woman with her own flaws, as well as her loves. Love for her swordmates—the Links of the Chain. Love even for the one that was the other. The one who would eventually be the instrument of her downfall. _

_But that was decades in the future. I will tell you of her greatest triumph. When all of us were young—when our world was young and our universe consisted of each other. _

_Yes, I was one of those Links. I was her Prime. The one-who-Ranges. The one who went out among her enemies, to find their weaknesses, as well as search for any common ground that I could find._

_Common ground that she could use to unite the warring factions among the tribes of the Brother. Or at least those on the one continent that she was the Protector of—not yet the Covenant-Hope of the entire Brother. _

_Her continent was not mine. I was from a continent from other than Mainside. I didn’t know much of my heritage. _

_Only the whispers when I used a strange power—a power that had seemed to be with me since I could remember. I could only smile at the whispers that intimated that I was not from this world. _

_Until I wondered why I had never felt at home anywhere on this world, known as the Elder Brother in a lost tongue._

_Until I used that power—a power that I had seen only one other use. The Covenant-Hope, whom I loved more than my own life. Just as I loved our other Links._

_This is only the beginning of her story. This is ours._


	2. The Prime: Ahsoka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Original Covenant and the present Prime-Link, Fulcrum, try to make sense of it all. One ally reflects on her past and deals with the present.

**The Elder Brother (now know as Corellia)  
** **The Aquilonian Coast (near the site of present day Coronet)**  
** Year 998 of the First Age of Uncertainty (I-AU)**  
** (A thousand generations ago)**

Inasia, daughter of a band of mountaineers in the interior of this land, wakens slowly. She can sense that the night is still in full bloom, that the Brother’s children lighten the skies at opposite ends.

She breathes in, realizes that the covers have moved to her waist. She hears a slight cry from her left. Inasia stiffens at the noise. Danaeset, her infant son, stirs from his place on his father’s chest. She reaches over and runs her fingers through the one-year old’s thatch of golden hair, a gift of the unknown woman who had borne Inasia, a woman that her fathers had never spoken of. A bright spot even in the darkness of of the tent, a sharp contrast to Danaeset’s dark skin, as well as that of his father, Danwyn the Healer. Inasia smiles softly.

She feels a stirring against her right. Delae mutters softly in her sleep, a tiny bit of drool falling on Inasia’s shoulder. The smile broadens on her face. She moves her shoulder from under Delae’s face. She gently wipes the moisture away. Her other Link relaxes. _The Thinker_.

Most probably thinking up the day’s ration of sarcastic responses and cuts. The weapons at a Thought-Mage’s disposal. Along with the paired daggers and crossbow that she wields with the same deadly precision as her snark.

Inasia rises. She doesn’t bother with any of her clothing, except for the thick woolen cloak that she wraps around her. She touches the center of the breastplate hanging on the rack, next to the various armors of the others in the tent. The light of one of the Brother’s daughters plays over the symbol. A chain, newly forged in silver, over a pair of offset triangles.

The symbol of her new title. Her new responsibility. Her new path. The _Cunan ta suil_.

The Covenant of Hope. The Brother’s Protector. Inasia tries to push the thoughts of the last two years from her mind, since her Declaration. Since she had signed the parchment in her own blood. A time spent fighting and talking. Fighting the enemies of unity, of darkness. Talking and arguing, even with the anointed king of this particular coastal region, Garm, whose ambition knows no bounds.

All to bring about an ancient prophecy—the words of the Dragon, the leader from the mists of antiquity, from the time just after the World-Ships had brought their ancestors to this beautiful home. The Conqueror of the Nine Hells. A prophecy that foretold that the Brother’s nine argumentative, proud tribes would be reunited again.

A prophecy now on her shoulders—she who is barely three-and-twenty. All because of a drunken bargain her Prime-father had made with that same king. A charge to lead the world out of the Age of Uncertainty. An epoch that had lasted nearly a thousand years.

The opening of the tent flap draws her attention. She smiles as her paladin walks into the tent. Terias gives her a measured look, before starting to shed her armor and clothing. The youngest of the Links doesn’t walk over to her. Inasia looks into her dark eyes, eyes that normally shimmer with laughter. She sees only hurt and a tiny spark of remaining anger.

Inasia sighs as Terias drops her final piece of clothing on the floor of the tent, holding it out and deliberately dropping it. A young soldier, one who is usually so diligent with her training and care of her weapons. Just as she had cared for her cooking implements, before Inasia had rescued from her life as a cook-slave for another ruler. She walks over to the younger woman and deliberately opens the cloak and pulls her against her own body, wrapping the cloak around them both. She holds Terias silently, in spite of the unyielding stiffness of her body against the embrace.

Terias finally relaxes, after several moments. She burrows her face against Inasia’s shoulder. Inasia looks over at the two lying on the pallet. Delae stares back at her, her expression blank. The look finally softens. She points to the pallet between she and Danwyn.

Danae chooses that instant to make his presence, as well as his own hunger known. Inasia and Terias both sigh, then giggle. Inasia gives Terias a brief kiss, then releases her. She gently shoves her towards the pallet. She reaches down and picks up her son, giving a quick check of the swaddle around his middle. She motions with her eyes to the now-awake healer and the thinker.

Terias and Delae are soon in each other’s arms, whispering in each other’s ears, as a momentary respite from their rift.

Danwyn nods, then moves over to the other two. Inasia looks at the trio with longing, but an insistent move against her front from the burly bundle in her arms, tells that her own pleasures and joy will have to wait. She brings the infant to her breast, then closes the cloak around him.

She turns and walks towards the door, ignoring the sighs and building passion behind her. She nods at the two guards, senior members of her Companions, standing at either side of the door. She grins; the officers of the Companions had started to calling themselves the Hells, after those nine leaders who had helped Draq’ conquer those realms. She walks over to her favorite overlook—one of her favorite places on this coast, so unfamiliar from the place of her birth, the mountains and hollows of the Ray, particularly that of Whyren’s Deep.

Inasia watches the sea pound over the rocks. As Danaeset sucks hungrily at his meal, she wonders if she’ll ever be able to complete her purpose, without destroying her fragile family. She is to end an age of uncertainty, but her own uncertainty may stymie her.

She takes a deep breath as she feels a tickle at the base of her skull. A smile paints over her features, as she sends her own burst of light in her mind towards another of her Links.

The Prime-Link. The One Who Ranges. A Link known only to she and the three entwined in each other’s bodies in the tent. The one that she protects, even as he protects her. The linchpin of the Prophecy.

Her eyes move to a ridge overlooking the camp. She sees the tall figure standing in front of his mount. She closes her eyes. In her mind, she can see the warm looks, the grin and the eyes a color of the roiling sea below, looks that are mostly reserved for her, with a different level for his fellow Links.

Looks that no others see, as he spends his time alone. Alone among her enemies.

She watches and waits for awhile, as the pink edges of the false dawn of the Father begin to make its appearance. The sensation at the back of her neck grows stronger. She nods, then turns back to the camp and the warmth of a guard-fire.

Beneath the warm, oversized woolen cloak, she feels Danae stir, then release another, somewhat belated belch after his breakfast. She turns to the two soldiers sitting at the fire next to her, and across from her.

“Good meal,” the one closest to her says dryly.

Inasia joins in their quiet laughter, the easy familiarity. Neither she nor the two soldiers seem to be concerned with the fact that she sits naked under the cloak, having lived in the closeness of an army on the march. She had bathed in many rivers with all of her soldiers. Some, she had returned those glances and looks, if they had caught her fancy, sometimes the looks would lead to a quick, occasional grapple in a tent or in the woods. She grins. Including these two of her Companions.

She feels the man next to her tense, the laughter fading. Across from her, the woman’s hand moves towards her sword. She shakes her head slightly, then rises, turning.

Lenatus the Talker stands away from them, a sardonic smile on his handsome features. His dark eyes move over her form; the robe has parted slightly. His salt and pepper goatee and mustache twitches.

Her eyes narrow. Another of her Links. One manifestation of the Other. One that bears watching, even as she takes his counsel and his body into hers.

“Hello, Len,” she says. The woman, Kara, rises and walks over next to her. After a moment, Tegen, the other guard follows suit.

“Your Eminence,” Len says in his undefinable, but cultured accent.

She turns to Tegen and opens her robe. Without a word he nods and takes Danaeset to his chest. She turns her eyes to the Covenant’s tent. The two guards turn, but not without Kara showing her blade to the Talker.

He smirks at her and bows his head in response. His eyes linger on Inasia’s body, before she covers it. She shakes her head.

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Len?” she asks.

“I was wondering what you wanted me to tell Garm and his lords when I see them,” he replies smoothly.

She grits her teeth. _Everything that comes out of that hole under his nose is smooth_, she thinks.

She hears laughter in the back of her mind, a harbinger of that special gift. One that binds her to that rider making his way to her. She shakes her head.

“I’m sure that you’ll tell him what you want to tell him. Whatever that will give you the maximum amount of leverage in your little game,” she says. “I’m sure it will come in the form of whispers in his ears, just before you employ your mouth for something else.”

He stops and looks at her. “Well, maybe you should try it. He’s asked me everything I can tell him about your bed-habits.” His lips lift, then fall in a flat line. “You’ve never complained when I used my mouth on you. When it suited your needs. You shouldn’t begrudge me a bit of using it for myself, as well as you.”

“That’s because we can never tell if you’re talking out of your mouth or your anus,” comes a warm voice. “Or when you’re whispering in other ears and to other cocks.”

Inasia feels her insides twist at the voice. She turns, managing to keep her expression neutral as she sees that one with the other side of that mystical bond dismount. His midnight-black mount chuffs at the sight of Lenatus, lowering his double, curved horns.

Arten calms his destrier, whispering into a tiny ear. She hears a tiny bit of laughter in the low voice. After his conversation, he leads the mount over to her. She pulls out the root vegetable that she keeps in her cloak for her own mount. The destrier gobbles it hungrily, then butts her in the chest, gently.

“Ahh, our prodigal ranger,” Lenatus says. “Another who chooses to grace us with his presence when the spirit moves him.” Lenatus joins them. “Perhaps I’ll get to talk to your cock again, soon, Arten?” he asks.

The two men stare at each other. After a moment, Lenatus softens his expression, then touches Arten’s cheek. He pulls the ranger in for a deep kiss.

Lenatus turns to Inasia after they break free. He smirks. “I’m sure that our dear ranger came in for important consultations, after his sojurn in the west, along the Chain-line.” He reaches over and pulls Inasia into an embrace. “I’ll present what we discussed last to Garm, your Eminence. I’ll try and persuade him that your strategy is the best of a bad situation when it comes to the Solos.” He kisses her. “We just have to convince him that the Covenant serves all of us, not just the Raylans.”

Inasia nods after a moment. He turns and leaves.

She closes her eyes, allowing the almost intoxicating feel of Arten’s mind in hers. Something she has experienced with no one else.

“Welcome home, Tal,” she whispers as his arms move under her robe, pulling her in close. She gasps at the warmth of his hands. A warmth matched in his gaze.

“Hello, sweetie,” he replies. “The Sals might be willing to talk, if Garm doesn’t listen to reason.”

* * *

She watches the scene unfold. In her mind, she sees a woman—middle-aged, but still powerful, kneeling on a dais. A younger man, with dark skin and an incongruous thatch of straw-like hair, approaches the woman from behind. He draws a sword—an ancient greatsword of the past. She feels her heart begin to beat faster, as he lifts the sword. She realizes that she watches from someone else’s eyes, someone familiar to both, but hidden. She detects no fear. No horror that she’s about to witness the woman’s head fall to the dais, a fountain of blood decorating her pure white gown.

As the young man touches the flat of the sword to the woman’s shoulders, she takes a good look at her face. A woman with a caf-with-cream complexion, a mass of dark curls streaked with gray drawn back.

Gray eyes that stare forward—towards the future. Gray eyes she has seen before.

She stares at the scene. Her mind’s eye track down to a small tributary. She sees the watcher in the reflection. Another woman in her middle years, auburn hair streaked with gray, a pair of overlarge blue eyes.

A buzzing cuts through her consciousness, sending the picture in her brain away, replacing it with that of a dingy alley.

Ahsoka Tano wrinkles her nose at the smell of the borrowed blanket that covers her, as she comes out of the deep meditation. She sighs as she realizes that she is sitting in yet another dark, garbage-strewn alley on one of a hundred similar worlds in the Galaxy. _To restore the Republic_, she thinks, with only a hint of sarcasm. She shakes her head, making sure that her scarf-hood remains over her features, as well as most of her lekku. _Could be worse_, she continues in her mind. _I could be in that shitty bar over there, getting my ass pinched and pawed._

A tricolored light in her mind—one that she’s never sure is actually the owner’s, or her own conscience, laughs at the thought. _Or you could be back on Corellia, pawing my ass with impunity, Runt_, says the Bryne Covenant-voice.

She shakes her head, sending her mind back to a different world—a different time, apparently at well. She focuses on the faces that she had seen in her—vision? dream?—she can’t tell which. The woman on the dais had a nagging familiarity. Not someone she had ever met, but had caught a glimpse of.

Perhaps in a painting. Just a tiny hint of familiarity. She brings her mind back to the reflection of the watcher. She realizes that the watcher bears distinct similarity to the young man on the dais. Especially around the eyes. She sighs, allowing her mind to come back to the present. As she does, she glimpses a banner—a banner with three colors.

The same colors that announce her hunt-brother in her head. Purple, gold, and a unique shade of green, known as Blackthorn green on his father’s world, Corellia.

The thought of her hunt-brother reminds her of her present situation; it reminds her to make the part of a drunken layabout look better by taking a swig from a dirty bottle. She allows the smooth burn of the whisky to ease down her esophagus, warming her. She manages to suppress the chuckle at the extent of her method acting. _A drunken alley-sleeper probably wouldn’t have twenty-year old Whyren’s single malt in their bottle_, she thinks.

She shakes those thoughts away, knowing that they are both doing what is required, each in their own way. She instead looks around at the dim alley. A garden spot located on the lower strata of Nar Shaddaa. The Smugglers’ Moon—a city-moon orbiting the homeworld of the Hutts, the rulers of commerce—both legal and illegal, in this entire segment of the Outer Rim.

Ahsoka smiles to herself as she touches the bottle once again resting in a hidden pocket of the old flight jacket. A pocket located next to another, one filled with a more deadly object—an ancient object deadly for others, if not her. She draws a deep breath inward as she remembers receiving the original bottle from a pair of warm hands. The warm hands connected with that bright light in her Force sense, whenever his works.

She realizes that her comm is still buzzing. She looks around. Everyone else in her little clique of ne’r-do-wells had vacated the sleeping spots for their primary occupations. That or the fact that she had snatched some sort of rodent in midair and crunched into it in an attempt to discourage friendship from the group. She will need to brush her teeth when no one is looking.

Ahsoka raises her hand and pulls down a tiny screen over her right eye. She touches the answer button on her wrist comm under the old blanket. A pair of brown eyes fills her vision before she can adjust the gain on the twodee. Even the washed out picture can do nothing to diminish the sparkle in those eyes. Ahsoka feels her heart twist with several emotions.

Not the least is the regret at Meglann being where she is at all.

“Hey, Squirt,” she says quietly.

“How’s the rat population, Brawler?” Meglann asks, ignoring the ‘Squirt’ comment.

“My palate’s a bit rusty, but I think that they’re a bit gamey,” she says. “For full effect of portraying a beggar, it helps keep my bedfellows and would-be lotharios away when I want privacy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, the next time Phygus hits on me,” Meglann says dryly. “You are going to brush your teeth before I kiss you, right?”

“Maybe,” Ahsoka replies. “Not sure what I can do about the fleas, though.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Meglann says after a moment of silence. “So did you get my message about Lassa?”

“Yeah. Good that you’re headed to the Outer Rim. You got backup?”

“I’ll have some soon, Mom,” Meglann replies with no small amount of snark.

Her smile fades as she sees Ahsoka’s expression. “I’m okay, Fulcrum,” she says. “I know that you worry about me, but I think that I’ve thought of everything. The _Draq’stone’s_ on its way. I’m headed to Tatooine—to Mos Eisley. I had a communication from Thyla that said they were headed there for some supplies. That was several days ago.”

Ahsoka paints a smile on her face, suppressing the worry. “Okay, Ina,” she says, using Meglann’s Corellian-based codename—the Hammer. “Maybe this is a wild-_drylek_ chase, but it’s not like her to not respond to a call.”

Meglann’s eyes narrow. “So you reached out to her?” she asks.

“No, Dani did. She was hoping to ask Lassa to back me up.”

“Could it have been who the caller was, that caused Lassa not to reply?” Meglann asks, knowing of the somewhat convoluted history between Dani and Lassa. _Not to mention bloody_.

Ahsoka grins. “No. I followed up. No joy. Even if she was in a pissy mood, she’d still respond to me.”

“Cause you got such a sterling personality, right?” Meglann snarks again.

“You didn’t seem to complain too much about my personality when we were having the great name-day celebration a few weeks ago,” Ahsoka replies with snark of her own.

“Yeah. All you old farts getting older within a few weeks of one another.”

“Just wait another ten months or so, infant. You’ll be getting older. Another year after that and you’ll be decrepit. The big two-oh.”

“Yeah. Don’t remind me. It’s all downhill from there. Between you turning twenty-three and Nola hitting the double-deuce, we’ll need an old-folks home in the movement.”

Ahsoka laughs. “Don’t even mention Dani and Bryne adding a year into the third decade,” she says lightly.

Meglann looks away, her face growing sad. “I’m sorry you had to go to Nar Shaddaa, babe,” she says. “I know you wanted to spend some time with him at the end of the month on his—”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “It’s okay, Hammer,” she says. “We know the drill. Besides,” she says with a grin, “we had a pretty good celebration with all of us in one place for a few days.

“So where is his Eminence?” Meglann asks. “We just got back from the shindig on Fondor, celebrating Yelena’s Ascension as Yard-mistress of Dao-Aspeff.”

“I think that he might be following up on something for the Zeltrons—discreetly,” Ahsoka answers. “Did y’all have a good time?”

“Yeah. It was the least we could do. Yelena and her grandmother have always come through for us. She saved my ass a few times with that rifle of hers on Felucia.” She smirks. “They were a bit disappointed. They would’ve rather have had Dani and you for dinner. Covenant was their third choice.”

Their laughter is cathartic as they think of how little time they get to spend together, unless they’re causing chaos and mayhem.

Meglann falls silent. She looks away, blushing. “I got to wear a fairy-tale dress,” she whispers, with no small amount of shyness.

“I wish I could’ve seen you, sweetie,” Ahsoka says. She can hear another of those multiple emotions in her voice. Not just the raw pride in Meglann’s growth in the last few months.

“Me too. I would’ve loved to have had a beautiful Togruta princess on my arm as well as the semi-handsome Corellian prince.”

Meglann blows her a kiss as they sign off.

Ahsoka smiles at the thought of the other four present at the birthday celebration. All of them now bound by some ancient oath. An oath not that much different from that of a hunt-brother and sister on her world, or that of a sister or brother of the heart on Dani’s.

An idea that they would all come back to one another, whole, if not unbroken. That they would keep each other in the light.

The smile turns softer as she thinks of how the dynamic had changed even more, only a couple of months or so ago. She remembers what Bryne had told her of the history of the Links of the Covenant Chain—the new bonding that they had found themselves in. That the precipitating event of the only other Affirmation of the Links in history was the response to an Age of Uncertain Paths by his ancestor, as she had come into her own title and power.

Ahsoka reaches into her jacket again, pulling the bottle out. The smooth warmth brings back the memory of Bryne’s warm voice as he told her of the legacy of his grandmother’s family—not just that as the Protector, or Covenant, of the Five Brothers, but of the clear, cool streams and hollows of the Ray, the mountainous region to the north and west of Corellia’s capital and the accompanying Shields. A legacy spoken of, lying in bed on their sanctuary on Takodana. One of only a few for them in the galaxy.

Ahsoka brings herself back to the present, giving the alley a quick once-over. No one screaming contact stands out. A contact that had supposedly helped establish the former Diktat’s bonafides with the Hutts. Some would say that her days as the Diktat had already established those credentials. She sighs. _Maybe I should’ve brought Meglann._

Ahsoka shakes her head. The biggest part of the new path, the widest lane, is getting used to not always being alone. The entire extended group of the Links and their small crew, the Hells as they were known, would exist as her first true cell in the Core, with some forays into the other Rims, as she needed. A cell that no other would have the privileges—the privilege of her true identity, rather than a shadow or a codename. At least the inner circle—the other named Links.

Ahsoka sighs, moving her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. She drops her hand after a moment, then picks up the bottle, staring at the pure amber liquid. She thinks of the matter-of-fact description from Bryne of how he had lived in a bottle like this for several months—without purpose, as well as thinking that everyone he had loved was now dead.

Even new loves and loves that hadn’t been born.

She shakes her head. _I didn’t exactly deal with the my grief all that well, either. Just in other unhealthy ways_. Her mind catalogs those ways. Hiding from her emotions, either in the Outer Rim on whatever dustball she could find, or in inherently risky behaviors. Behaviors that had helped her discover a slight resistance to bacta, because of the amount of time she had spent dunked in it already. A temporary resistance, but the timing of the discovery could’ve been better after getting stabbed in the back.

Ahsoka curses herself as she realizes that she had lost focus in a crappy alley on a crappy world. Something that her former handler, Nola, would’ve had taken her to task for, with her biting snark. Biting, but with an underlying degree of love, even during their worst times.

Another uncertain path for them both. They had only begun to call each other ‘sis’, again, as they had all through the early days, for the first time in months, after stolen moments on the shore of a lake on Takodana. Ahsoka curses to herself as her comm buzzes on her wrist. Her eyes narrow at the words. She gets up. _Oh well_, she thinks. _Time to move from the shithole alley to the shithole bar_. She only hopes that the smelly blanket she had found in a trashbin will allow her entry. She may need it again.

As she walks out into the street, she wonders if she and Nola will ever get back to that full dynamic, if they can get back to that place of warm snark and care. Her smile grows then fades suddenly, an instant before the Force screams a warning. Her left side lights up with pain and fire, with the power of a sledgehammer to the muscle below her ribs. She backpedals, managing to call on her mystical partner.

She leaps. Fortunately, her feet manage to keep from missing the building roof, as she had in one instance in the early days of her time as Fulcrum, after she had been stabbed in the back (figuratively and literally). That had not been one of her finest hours, as she had missed in front of her old adversary Hondo Ohnaka. An adversary who had saved her life, in spite of the profit loss.

She still doesn’t exactly stick her most graceful landing. She brings her hand down to her side, comes up with bright blood, from the front and back. Through and through. _No cauterization. Not a blaster_.

She looks across the gap to another building. A black-clad figure with a slugthrower runs in the opposite direction. There is something familiar about the bulky figure. Ahsoka’s eyes widen as she sees blasterfire dotting the roof near the figure’s feet. Another glimpse of a second figure on yet another roof—a figure in black Mandalorian armor, that’s somehow familiar, as well. The figure activates its jetpack and roars away, pursuing the attacker.

Ahsoka slumps to her knees, a wave of dizziness cutting through her brain. Through the fog, she manages to rise, then leap to the ground. A quick sprint to another alley and she is concealed among other street-sleepers.

Her eyes close just as she manages to touch her comm. She quickly wonders if the organisms that will move into her bloodstream from this garbage-can of an alley or the loss of blood will kill her first. Her last thoughts before her eyes close are of all of her fellow Links. Of their Covenant. Of all of their uncertain paths.

* * *

The observer watches Fulcrum watch the Hutt’s nest. She takes a deep breath, inhaling through the filters of her _buy’ce_. If she concentrates on the glass of the Heads-Up Display, she can see her hazel eyes staring back at her. With practiced, if rusty ease, she concentrates on Fulcrum’s so-called disguise with one eye while watching her own reflection with the other. She watches the readout—the even breathing, the Togruta-rapid heartbeat, and the slightly cooler body temperature.

Tamsin—known only by one name, ever since she had been discovered sitting next to her dead parents, with only that name written on a clothing label—grins as she sees the respirations and heartrate increase. _Now who could she be thinking about, right now? Don’t need that Jedi-hoodoo to know she’s got the screaming thigh-sweats for somebody._

Tamsin laughs aloud. “Probably that wanker who seems to be my boss, now. Or one of the other twits,” she whispers to herself. She smiles at her own memories of brief grapplings with Fulcrum—the woman that she knows as Jana.

Not exactly a Togruta-standard name.

Tamsin watches as Jana takes a swig from her bottle. As she does, she remembers Nola Vorserrie’s orders. _Watch her back, Tams. I can’t be there._

She doesn’t wonder what Nola—the Hand of the Queen of Alderaan who had once thrown her off of her birthworld, after a mild disagreement with Bail Organa—is doing, that she can’t be here. She remembers that ‘disagreement’.

_Well, if you thought calling the Viceroy-Consort an asshole was mild_.

Tamsin looks down. “No grudges, Tams,” she whispers to herself. “Might’ve been the best thing to happen to me.”

The banishment had sent her to a world that she could be herself, rather than sitting in the shadow of her ex-partner and lover, Chardri Tage. Rather than suppressing the nature of the man who had found her. A small child sitting next to the bodies of her parents—members of an Alderaani scientific survey team, slaughtered by pirates.

She remembers staring up in fear at his blue and silver helmet, an instant before he twirled the two blasters in his hands and returned them to their holsters. He had crouched down next to her child-self, then slowly reached up and pulled the helmet from his head.

He had looked down at her with hard dark eyes, a question on his face. As if making a decision. His eyes softened as he reached down and picked her up. She had only the memory of falling asleep in his arms, her fingers twining in his dark curly hair. She had felt the rush of air as his jetpack ignited, taking her up to a saucer-shaped ship hovering in the air.

Jango Fett, feared bounty hunter, had taken her to a family on a distant world. A kindly family that had raised her, until her world had finally reclaimed her as a teenager from the Mandalorian Protectors.

A world that she had never known. One that she’d never adjusted to, even with a foster family.

Tamsin starts as she realizes that Fulcrum has gotten up. Tamsin makes sure that she stays concealed. She focuses her attention on Jana. A flash of light catches her eyes from the rooftop. An instant later, she hears a crack.

Her heart drops into her stomach as she sees Jana fall. An instant later, Jana manages to launch herself to the roof.

Tamsin tracks a figure with a long gun. She jerks her carbine up and opens fire, the HUD tracking the figure, who starts to zigzag away. Tamsin shakes her head, as she realizes that she is more rusty than she thought with her _beskar’gam’s_ intricacies. She manages to yank the bucket off, then opens fire again. She sees the figure’s head jerk, but he keeps his feet.

Tamsin looks around, trying to find Fulcrum. She sees her lying in a heap on another roof. She triggers her jetpack, leaping to where Jana lays. She curses as she starts to yaw away.

_Really rusty_, she thinks as she arcs over the crumpled figure. She slams into the roof where Jana’s assailant had been, just in time to see the large assailant climb on the back of a swoop-bike, an equally large driver gunning the engine.

Tamsin picks herself up gingerly. Pain lances into her side. She grasps that side, then turns in the direction of Fulcrum’s roof. She realizes that Jana is nowhere to be found. She pulls her bucket back on and begins to scan, having locked onto the Togruta-normal readings. A moment later she finds Jana in another alley, at least she hopes that it’s her, rather than another female Togruta drunk.

Tamsin starts to trigger the jetpack, but thinks better of it. She realizes that her gloved hand has closed on a small object. She stares at the small, broken-off horn, before she files it on her utility belt. She starts the long walk from the roof of her building to Fulcrum’s alley. _No, not a walk. A hobble,_ she thinks darkly.

An eternity later, she stands over Fulcrum. Tamsin crouches next to her; she is gratified to see Fulcrum’s chest rising and falling, if a bit slowly, in her pile of rubbish.

A shaft of white light lances up to her face. _The bucket_, she thinks. She reaches up hastily and pulls it from her head, yanking the cowl back from her hair.

She sees Fulcrum’s blue eyes widen in recognition, of at least her face. Her hair is no longer the high orange crest it had been when Fulcrum had last seen her, but a mop of curls, on top of her skull, with only a bright green stripe down the middle. The sides are close shaven and her original color.

Mostly.

Tamsin sees Jana’s face morph into the powerful, familiar Smirk, if a bit unfocused. The lightsaber stays at her chin. Tamsin recalls the last time she had fought this woman, before she had known who and what she was. She had watched her beat that oversized schoolboy and her ex-partner Chardri Tage into submission without breaking a sweat. All with a pair of batons.

Tamsin had gone to sleep soon afterwards. She shakes her head. _I might have a selective memory as to who got their ass kicked first._

The lightsaber sheathes. Fulcrum’s eyes grow more unfocused as she slumps again. Tamsin stares at the growing pool of blood on her clothing. She reaches down and yanks the filthy blanket from Jana’s side. She realizes that the old nerf-leather flight jacket had been pulled away from the left side and hangs from her right arm. She reaches into a belt pouch, pulling out two pads. Without a word, she pulls up Fulcrum’s top, staring at the two holes in the orange-bronze skin.

“I’m okay, twit,” Jana murmurs. “I forgot you had Mando kit. Where’d you get it?”

“A man helped me forge it when he thought I was worthy enough,” Tamsin replies absently, as she slaps the bacta pads on both wounds. She pushes the thoughts of Jango Fett from her head.

“I almost skewered you,” Jana says. Tamsin feels the lek twitching on her cheek.

“Well, that’s gratitude for you,” she replies.

She touches her vambrace to Jana’s skin, waits for the vitals to stabilize as she pulls an injector out and touches it to her patient’s neck.

“Thought you were Alderaan-born and bred,” Jana murmurs against her skin, her words growing more slurred.

“Born at least. Bred on Mandalore, until I got too rebellious even for the Protectors. They looked harder for somebody on the Mother to take me.” She doesn’t add that her continued rebellion took the form of seeking out her savior, a man proscribed even by the Traditionalists—the Houses of Mandalore.

“Bet your new family loved the Mando lessons.”

“Couldn’t wait to ship me off to flight school,” Tamsin says. The readings fall more within her acerbic med-droid’s liking, through the remote link. She steels herself for the pain as she tries to heft the weight of barely conscious Togruta from the deck of the roof.

To her credit, Jana tries to help stand, but she stumbles, nearly pulling Tamsin to the ground. Tamsin takes a deep breath and gives a bit of extra effort.

She nearly pukes for her pains. _It’d be worth it to splatter Jana with the residue_. She manages to keep the nerf-burger and root-fries down.

Tamsin shifts her burden to the side that doesn’t have the knifing pains in it with every breath.

“I can walk, Tams,” Jana whispers. A sudden slump downwards to her knees backs up her words. Tamsin grits her teeth, ensuring they both stay on their feet.

Jana takes that moment to plant a wet kiss on her cheek, then reach up and run her fingers through her hair, allowing one finger to trace the shaven sides.

Tamsin is suddenly barely able to stand for another reason. _No, No, No. Can’t get distracted by the all-powerful rebel stoned out of her gourd._

“Come on, Jana. Quit with the grabass. I’ve got a ride coming. An aircar. We can ride back in style. Maybe we can share a bacta tank. Won’t that be romantic?” she finishes, wincing at her words.

She feels Jana’s eyebrow markings rise. She reaches over and touches Tamsin’s back. “Why can’t we use your jetpack thingy?” she slurs.

“What jetpack?” Tamsin asks, putting as much innocence in the words as she can muster.

Jana is silent for a moment. Tamsin can only hope.

“You crashed, didn’t you?”

Fortunately, she can hear her comm beep, signaling that Obie and others are approaching their rooftop quickly. She makes sure that she has a good hold on Jana, if only for the few moments that it will take Obie to cover the distance.

She feels Jana begin to slump even more. Tamsin closes her eyes at the whispered words from Fulcrum.

“Some fucking Mando.”

Later, Tamsin looks down at Jana as she lies on the bed in the small medical bay. She watches, ignoring her own pain as VeeCee, her medical droid, gently cuts away the ruined top. Without a word, Tamsin helps the droid undress the young woman. She winces as Jana whimpers in her unconsciousness as VeeCee probes the entrance wound. The droid gives the mechanical equivalent of a satisfied nod. “Through and through. Nothing vital hit. No broken bones. A few hours of a dip and she’ll be fine.”

“You know about her little issue with the bacta, right?” Tamsin asks. She herself had not been present, but had heard about it on her briefing.

VeeCee stares through her, as if unable to believe that she’d asked. “Yes,” she replies to Tamsin. “Those enzymes are fine.” She turns away.

Tamsin turns to the hologram watching and listening. The blandness of the holoprojector doesn’t capture the power of the man’s green eyes, locked on Fulcrum.

It does captures his pain and concern. “She’s okay, Bry—your Eminence,” she corrects herself at the last.

He moves his gaze to hers. “I think you’ve earned the right to call me by my name, Tams,” Bryne Covenant says. A corner of his mouth quirks. “In fact I believe you’ve referred to me as ‘that wanker’.”

She manages not to flush.

“Any ideas about her attacker?”

She reaches over to her utility belt, abandoned with the rest of her armor on another table, for VeeCee’s assistant to check her over. She pulls up the object that she had found. “He was big. Think I tagged him with a glancing blow. Found this.” She hands it to the medical droid. Her scanning light plays over it.

“It’s a temple horn from a Zabrak. Iridonian type from the indicators,” VeeCee says in her acerbic tones.

“He, and I’m pretty sure he was a ‘he’, got on a speederbike driven by an equally large bruiser.”

She sees his eyes narrow in the hologram. “Might have some ideas about that, Tams. Something she told me.” He looks at her. “Take a dive in bacta yourself, Captain. She’ll need you to watch her back. You might be getting some help, though.”

Tamsin realizes that Fulcrum—Jana—is now floating in the tank, a respirator over her face. She sees Bryne’s eyes grow tender, an instant before he disconnects.

“You heard the man, sweetie,” VeeCee says. “Off with the clothes. You get a matching tank.”

“No,” Tamsin says. “It sounded like only a suggestion. I got work to do.”

“In spite of his tendency to blush at everything, Obie can handle anything. I spent too much of my valuable time knitting your lungs and your liver back together after you took a bit of a vacuum-walk a few months back, for you to screw up my handiwork again. Get naked, girl,” the droid says. She holds up a hypo.

Tamsin sighs, then begins to lift her shirt over her head. “Someday I’m going to take a goddamned plasma torch to you.”

“Ooh, so you’re into pain. I can get with that,” she hears through her shirt, as she manages to pull it over her head.

_Who the hell programmed her? Where the hell did she pick up that Twi’lek accent?_


	3. The Thinker: Nola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, a rift moves towards healing. In the present age, uncertainty grows, but there is movement.

**The Past, Corellia**

Inasia listens to the noise of a large war-camp beginning to stir as the true dawn breaks. She knows that Terias had already stirred, from the warm pile of Delae and Danwyn; she was already meeting with the guard commanders, listening to their reports of a quiet night, even out among the outposts. She smiles at her youngest Link’s diligence and care. 

Tal had gone to tend his mount’s needs; he will probably collapse in the tent for at least a few hours of needed sleep. He had traveled night and day to reach the camp. Inasia had felt the healing wound on his ribs when she had reached her hand under his armor to leach some of his warmth. Her fingers had come away with a slight amount of blood. He had said nothing to her sharp look. 

She was sure that Danwyn would make sure that he would survive the wound. Probably while Terias and Delae were sitting on him. She grins. The healing session would most probably devolve into more strenuous activity. 

A rare moment with all of them together. All but the Other, Lenatus. 

She knows all of their opinions of the slippery talker—of the convention in the Concordat that allowed for one or two of the Links that might bear watching, but might be able to aid the Covenant-Hope. 

She feels a presence behind her. She turns and looks into the dark eyes of Delae, the Thought-Mage. She takes a deep breath. Danaeset giggles and reaches out to the slightly older woman. The thunderous expression on Delae’s light bronze features softens a bit. She reaches out and takes the boy into her arms. Inasia feels her eyes sting at the pain in Delae’s own eyes—there for just a fleeting moment. She returns her gaze to Inasia as Danaeset begins to toy with one of the bangles over her gown. 

“I know you’re still angry, Del,” Inasia says. She reaches up and touches Delae’s cheek. She feels her lean into the touch. 

“It’s not that I’m angry, your Eminence,” Del says. “I just know that we really need to be wary of the Sals. They’ve spent a good amount of the last two centuries raiding the people of Aquilonia. We’ve long memories,” she finishes. 

After a long moment, Inasia replies. “I know. But we’re going to have to put aside the enmity of the past, in order to face a bigger threat from the Sumans of the North. They’ve made no bones about slaughtering our people and moving theirs to our lands. Both the Aquilonians and the Raylans. 

Del grits her teeth. Danae senses her anger, starts to whimper. She shakes her head, then beckons his caretaker over. The man takes him and moves away, after Inasia kisses the bundle and blows a raspberry on his belly. Del kisses him on his forehead, as well. 

Delae takes several breaths, then calms. “Inasia, I don’t think that you understand. The Ray were never threatened as much by the Sals. Some would say that you tolerated some of the raids on my people.”

Inasia manages to keep her temper. “I can’t speak for the past. But if you want to speak of moral equivalency, a year or two ago, one of Garm—your King’s—lords was going to slit Terias’s throat in public because she had escaped too many times. She was a slave—yes, I know—an indentured servant. The bottom line is, she was sold to that Lord as a cook. Fortunately, I didn’t cause a diplomatic incident when I gutted him like a coppergrin.”

Delae grins at the coastal simile. “Well, it didn’t help that he insulted a Lord of the Ray.” She softens her expression again. “You did well, my love, granting Terias her freedom, as well as his lands and titles. Kind of pissed Garm off, but he might’ve gotten over it.”

“Maybe,” Inasia says. “Didn’t hurt that Terias had already been training for the sword and the axe, from almost the time she was child, before she was orphaned to a debtor. She’s probably a better soldier than Lord Whatshisname.” They both laugh. 

“Did you and Terias make up?” Inasia asks finally, after their laughter dies. 

Delae’s sharp features go blank, just before she nods. “We’re getting there. It helped that you gifted us that time last night with Danwyn. When you kind of pushed her to us, while giving us space.” She smirks, an expression that warm’s Inasia’s heart and finishes. “It’s amazing how a few orgasms can heal you.” She narrows her eyes and looks down her upturned nose at her Covenant. “Maybe someone I know should try it sometimes, when she’s pissed off at someone.”

“You offering, Del?” Inasia asks. She instantly regrets her words as she sees the hurt in Delae’s wide-spaced eyes. She closes hers tightly, but opens them as she feels her Thought-Mage’s hand on her cheek, her thumb on her lips.

“It’s okay, Inasia,” she says. “I’m okay. And yes, I’d offer. Anytime, anywhere.” She looks away under Inasia’s gaze. “I’m your Link. I’m here to protect you, as well as help you heal and live.

“Someday we might truly forgive each other for what was done. We both lost something. I think it’s up to us to help each other find what we lost.”

Inasia remains silent. She can tell that Delae is taking an effort to continue. “I’ll continue to treat with the Sals. I think that their Marquess is a conniving witch, but I’ll continue to be your _Seoladen_ to them.” She bows her head, remains in the bow.

Inasia smiles at the word of her people. A word that signifies an official conduit to another; one usually trusted with sensitive conversations. She lifts her hand and touches Delae’s lustrous black hair, gently pushing her face back up to the morning sun. 

_Trusted abjectly_, Inasia thinks. She had not given Lenatus the Talker this official status. 

She opens her cloak and pulls the taller woman into it, wrapping it around her. She stares up into Delae’s eyes; blue into brown. They both move to one another at the same time. When they break the kiss, Delae tweaks Inasia’s nose. Inasia responds by slapping Delae on the ass. “Come on,” she says. “I have to get dressed. Terias and I have to go see Garm.”

The smirk returns on her Thought-Mage’s face. “Maybe Terias can have a meal with him that she doesn’t have to fix.” A twinkle in her eye, one that Inasia hadn’t seen in awhile, returns. “Maybe you don’t have to get dressed, Little Hammer.” 

Inasia’s heart twists on the affectionate translation of her name, something, that like the twinkle, hadn’t been present for awhile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Should this be the time to say that Garm has gone on record thinking that you might be, and I quote, ‘a fun ride’?” Delae asks. Inasia smiles with gratitude at Delae’s disgust at relaying that bit of information.

The Covenant doesn’t rise to the insult. “I’ll be the only one doing any riding where his Grace is concerned. He might also learn the virtue of keeping his noble mouth shut.” Inasia smiles. “I wouldn’t worry. He’ll probably have the full ‘Garm’ turned on for Terias. But, I think that she might have some charms of her own.”

“I can attest to that,” Delae responds quickly. “If you can keep her from holding her dagger to his privates for his words about you.”

**The Present**

Nola Vorserrie watches the various denizens at the cocktail party circle around each other, their various hands, tentacles, claws, and other appendages either wrapped around drink glasses, or stuffing food into just as many different orifices. Just as many appendages seem to be engaging in touching others, subtle indicators of where the evening might go for some.

Even though she is here to supposedly contact and nourish donors for her new job, she remains standing by the wall, a ‘do not disturb’ look on her sharp features. She checks her reflection in the mirror and smiles at what she sees. Once again, as she hadn’t been for the few weeks of her new employment with the Crownshield Foundation for Refugees, she is clad in the flowing and beautiful business attire of her foster-sister’s people, the Zeltrons. The smile grows wider as she thinks of the three young women who had helped her choose this particular outfit, a purple-streaked flowing gray skirt and coat that reaches just below her knees. Each of these women had picked out a part of the ensemble, their snark and warmth apparent. 

She closes her eyes as she thinks of the warmth in particular. Warmth always present, but tempered with their experiences on Felucia. Each digesting the strange things that they had each experienced there, even though only one of them can sense the Force. All three of them in the afterglow of recovering from the world’s strange Force power, with each other and with their Covenant. She pushes the sensations of those recoveries from her mind and body—a cocktail reception introducing the finalists for the position of the Imperial moff of Chandrila might not be the best place for those thoughts.

_Come to think of it, this shindig could use some of Dani’s hoodoo to liven it up_, she thinks. Nola allows that warmth from certain memories to wash over her, as she focuses on her fellow Links’ selection of various pieces of her clothing. A mundane task, but one that none of them had enjoyed in their frenetic lives in quite some time. The ornate room of the Gather-House, an ancient building in Chandrila’s capital, Hana City, is replaced by a simple room near a sunny lake on Takodana, as Meglann Florlin, the youngest Link holds up various flowing skirts that Dani Faygan had brought in from the _Draq’stone_, the old _Consular_ class ship. Nola had wondered how her diminutive _ta’in’gere_, her sister of the heart, had collected business attire for someone of Nola’s nearly two meters. 

Meglann’s concentration is tight—something that Nola had only noticed recently. Nola’s smile widens as she thinks of her last official act as Hand of the Queen, swearing Meglann into service, under the pride-filled eyes of Queen Breha and Senator Bail Organa. She had felt the watchful eyes from the hidden balcony of the Chamber of Rhindon; she had known that those eyes had just as much pride in Meglann as she. Eyes that were filled with fear as well. 

Ahsoka Tano had selected her top with the same deliberate speed that she did everything. A quick analysis—almost lightning speed, then leaping forward. She had produced a version of a barely-there Togruta hunting top. A top that Nola probably wouldn’t wear by itself for this type of gathering, but melded with the other articles of clothing, was perfect. She remembers Ahsoka’s cool hands on hers as they looked at each other. The love and forgiveness flowing between each other—forgiveness for a deception.

A forgiveness from Ahsoka cemented as they held each other while floating in that lake, Dani, Covenant, and Meglann looking on and floating as well. An instant before they had simultaneously shoved each other’s heads under the water. A laughing and splashing that had led to the only thing that Ahsoka Tano takes her deliberate time with. 

Nola knows that a blush colors her pale skin under her rueful grin. The grin fades and her eyes widen at the realization—the thought that she is forgiven hits her like Meglann’s frying pan. A hammer blow that staggers her. 

She can only hope that she can forgive herself. 

A bright flash catches the corner of her eye. Nola looks down at the third finger of her left hand, at Covenant’s contribution to her sartorial armor. A delicate ring, the symbol of the public representation of this ancient Corellian bond that they’ve found themselves in, so that Covenant could continue to fight without the encumbrance of an arranged marriage. She runs her thumb over the surface of the gold-washed silver; over the five symbols bound together with runic links. Symbols of each of the Links and their Covenant—including those not Affirmed yet.

She sees Dani stand on her tiptoes and pull the coat over her shoulders, the warmth of her skin, as well as the emotional resonance that reflects and focuses the emotions of her fellow Links, sharp in her senses.. A resonance that focuses them on all of the three parts of the Zeltron soul—the heart, the mind, and the body. Nola knows that this coat is one of Dani’s favorites, even if it hangs to Nola’s knees instead of mid-calf, as it does on its owner. She smirks to herself as another thought trips her snark. _Yeah, it’s kinda looser up top on me, as well_.

The thought vanishes as she thinks of what Dani might be in her relationship with Ahsoka. The conduit for those feelings of forgiveness. A conduit, as well for another tripartite concept—the concepts that Dani represents in full—a mixture of her Corellian and Zeltron heritage—as well as her place as the most loving person in the universe; a love tempered with deadly skill that manifests when those in her circle are threatened. 

_Faith, hope, and love._

Nola realizes that her new bond—_her family_, of choice and necessity, represent those three concepts. She takes a shuddering breath as the thought hits her with another hammer blow to her own heart, mind, and body. 

The bond, even as loose or as tight as it is, may be what saves them—from each other, as well as the darkness. 

Nola comes back to herself, to the reception, as she sees a Chandrilan functionary motioning to her, as he gestures to another corner at another powerful acquaintance.

Mon Mothma looks up from her conversation with the Ugnaught union representative as Nola approaches her, the Chandrilan assistant attache leading her over. She makes her regrets to the representative, who continues to talk as if not missing a beat. Mon moves her eyes to her assistant, then to the Ugnaught. The assistant smoothly takes her place. Nola watches with amusement at the efficiency of the move. Mon moves over to her and gestures her over to a quiet alcove.

Before they sit on the overly padded couch, Mon takes Nola’s hands in hers, looking up at her. Nola turns away from the intense scrutiny. 

Mon reaches up and touches Nola’s cheek and brings her gaze back. After a moment of staring at each other, Nola gently disengages her hand from Mon’s with a careful smile and lifts the remains of her drink to her lips. As she does, Mothma raises two fingers at the server droid. She smiles at Nola as the ring catches the light.

The server brings two drinks, their previous orders in its memory banks. Both women smirk when they realize that both had been drinking Corellian whisky. Nola nods; they take their glasses and clink them together before sipping the mellow amber fluid. Neither one of them seem to follow the practice of cluttering up their tables or their palates with extra glasses of pure spring water, as connoisseurs of this liquid on its birthworld usually do. 

“How are you doing, Nola?” Mon asks as they put their glasses down on the small caf table. 

“I’m doing fine, Senator. It’s good to see you,” Nola replies, probably too quickly. She breathes out at Mothma’s skeptical look.

“You look beautiful, but you also look like someone who’s wrestling with something,” she says. 

_Spare me from perceptive politicians_, Nola thinks. Instead of voicing this, she says evenly, “I’ve just got several things going on, Senator.”

“The last time you had this look on your face, you managed to save my life from several assassins,” Mothma replies. A wry look comes over her calm features. “You saved Garm Bel Iblis, as well, but I’m still wondering of the value of that.” Nola and she share a brief laugh at her rival and the son of Nola’s erstwhile boss. 

“How’s your friend? The one that you seemed to be so worried about back on Alderaan.”

Nola knows that her faces shows a trace of that old regret and pain. “They’re a pain in my ass, which means that she’s doing fine,” she says. 

Mon’s eyebrows rise at the mixed pronouns, the final one a slight slip. She nods and smiles. “That’s good to hear,” she says simply.

Nola smiles. “How’re you doing, Senator? Any more threats?”

Mon returns the smile. “No. Not overtly. Although the person that we’re installing as Moff may make my life interesting, now that I’m stepping down as the interim Head of State and returning full-time to the Senate.”

“Malot Ton,” Nola says simply. “The former head of state.”

Mon looks around carefully. “Yes. The one that I forced out after he tried to have me killed.” She takes a sip of whisky. “Even though I could never prove it.”

Nola sighs; contemplates her own drink. “I know. But Draq’ has since found out that he isn’t owned by Malaky.” 

Mon’s eyes darken at the mention of the shadowy spice lord. Nola doesn’t meet her gaze at the mention of the name. Nola calls on all of her past Handmaiden training to keep her usually mobile features from betraying anything. 

As she had since she had first met Draq’ Bel Iblis, she marvels at the secrets he is able to keep, plus the ones that he begrudgingly dispenses. All in the service of the light and what he sees as the truth. Her eyes widen at Mon’s soft expression, her eyes closed. Nola wonders if she is thinking of lying in the Dragon’s arms, their hands touching each other’s faces, for a brief moment of respite. She shakes her head at the quick vision. Nola can keep secrets as well.

Sometimes too well. 

Mon opens her eyes, seeing Nola smiling at her. A warm burst of red flows over her pale skin. She shakes her head, pushing the warmth away. Her voice is even as she asks, “So who owns Ton? Who has bought and paid for him?”

“One of the Hutts. We can’t identify which one.”

Mon nods. “So that’s why Draq’ was sending Shyla Merricope to the Hutts, at least at some point.”

Nola starts at her words. “What?”

“I have my own information portals, my dear. Not just Draq’.”

Nola takes a sip of her whisky. “Yes. That’s one reason why. But we’ve got a problem. Shyla’s disappeared. She was on Coruscant; you’ll remember our little adventure getting a certain case of whisky off of the world.”

“Ah, yes. Quite the little deception for that case.”

Nola wonders if Mothma knows that a certain Corellian whisky-king and Elder Family member had been hidden in the bottom of the large case, unconscious. She absently rubs her left elbow, the site of a slight wound from their time on Felucia, afterwards. 

“Is that why you’re here, Nola?” Mon asks. 

“Yes. We’ve had reported sightings. One report has her here, in the downlevels near the Gather-House in the city. Another has her in the balm-grasslands.”

“What about other places?” Mon asks. 

“Someone is looking into the possibility that she made it to the Smuggler’s Moon. No sighting, but a distinct possibility.” 

“What about Mandalore? She has some contacts there,” Mon suggests. 

“That’s someone else’s bailiwick. They’re working with those contacts at Mandal Motors,” Nola replies. She doesn’t add that this ‘someone else’ has some extracurricular activities that he’s looking into.

Mon nods absently. Nola’s brows knit together. “Are you okay, Senator?” the younger woman asks.

Mon brings her finger and her thumb to the bridge of her nose. She stops herself. She appears to force a smile of reassurance. “I’m fine, dear. Just trying to figure out what path to choose, once I get back to the Senate full-time.”

Nola’s looks steadily at her. “What do you mean?”

Mon takes another sip; places her glass very deliberately on the side table. “I don’t know. Just thinking about how I can contribute to the growing of the idea that Bail, Padme’, and others came up with at the end of the Clone War.”

Nola nods. “The Delegation of 2,000?” she asks quietly. “The Cantham House meetings?”

Mon looks around briefly, then relaxes. “Yes. I didn’t know that you knew about those.”

Nola gives her own reassuring smile. “I was a Handmaiden, a very young one, when Padme’ briefed Queen Apailana on the meetings. I was in the room.” She looks Mon in the eye. “I gave an oath in blood to keep things secret, so you don’t have to worry about that.” Her expression turns fierce. “I would die before I betray anything that I’ve seen and heard.”

Mon smiles, reaches over and kisses Nola’s cheek. “I’m alive today because of your willingness to give up your life for something or someone you believe in. I know that Bail and Draq’ both value your discretion.”

Nola manages to keep her expression even at the mention of the first of those powerful men and his trust in her. She sees that Mothma notices; she manages to drop the mask down over her face. 

Mon continues, “It’s just that I’m uncertain as to how much I should reveal of my hatred for the Emperor’s policies. Bail is the bellwether for skirting that fine line. He’s very subtle in his work in the Senate; all the while planning for the future.” Nola’s eyes widen at the last words, even with her own ‘sublety’.

“There’s a reason that I chose this corner to sit in, dear,” Mon says. “Something your new boss gave me. A little device that helps mask any whispered conversations, not just to listening devices, but most auditory ranges.”

Nola relaxes, then rolls her eyes. “That old man has so many damned layers, that I can’t even keep up with his different ‘Dragon’ modes.” She grins and touches Mon’s hand. “I can’t imagine what your life can be like in his orbit.”

To her credit, Mon only flushes with a brief warmth on her fair skin at that mention. Nola keeps her hand on Mon’s. “It’s okay. You’re both discreet. It’s good to see that damned Dragon look soften when your name is mentioned.” She takes Mon’s hand, then squeezes it. “Remember? Handmaiden,” she says in a slightly singsong voice. 

Mon laughs. “I know. Never thought that I would wind up caring for someone—especially someone who’s the father of my greatest political trial.”

Nola shares her laughter briefly. “Don’t worry. Garm’s a trial for everyone. Even Draq’.”

Nola sobers again. “As I said, we have someone looking on several worlds for her. I’ll probably stay here, but I think that the Smuggler’s Moon is the most dangerous, right now. I don’t know if I want to leave our agent there on her own. Though I’m nowhere near her skillset.”

A shadow flows over Nola’s vision again. Mon closes her eyes; then opens them and forges ahead. “Tell me about her, Nola.” She holds her hand up at the thunderous look. “You don’t have to tell me anything restricted or secret. Or even her name. Tell me about the person that you so obviously care about. The one that brought such despair on your face back on Alderaan when you thought she was dying. The person that even now, I can tell you care about so much, when you mention her.”

Nola struggles with her answer. She takes a deep breath, one marked by one slight sob. She lifts her glass, then downs it. The droid immediately floats over and refills it. She watches as the droid retreats, then opens her mouth. “I was her go-between. Her handler, if you will.”  
She is carefully choosing her words. Mon remains silent, but smiles encouragingly. Mon moves her thumb to play over the slight scar on Nola’s palm; a scar that had marked thousands of young women throughout Naboo’s history.

“We immediately started arguing and snarking when we first met. But, it took on a different tone when we nearly got killed together in the first few hours.” She smirks. “Some of her extra-curricular activities with the criminal world, coupled with her sparkling personality.” Mon’s expression goes incredulous, as Nola softens her look. “No. Not like that. She was doing what she was born to do. Helping people and saving them.”

Mon relaxes and nods. Nola gathers herself again. “I got where I found it harder and harder to send her out. For awhile, she was getting hurt every time that she went out.” She laughs. “I heard later, after the time when I was shot,” she stops, looking down at the bare skin above her breasts in the brief top. Mon’s eyes fall on the small scar in the pale skin. “She went out and found the people, who did it. She did it while she had a knife wound in between her ribs. She had spent so much time in bacta, she wasn’t able to use it initially. Kinda ironic, as I couldn’t either, since I was allergic.”

She sees Mon fighting her own tears as she listens to Nola’s dry recitation of what she and Ahsoka have gone through. Nola’s vision blurs for a brief instant. “What else happened?” Mon finally asks. 

“The anger I felt at her risks spiked for awhile. I could barely stand to talk to her. I was so afraid I would lose her.” She blinks several times. “Some fucking handler.” She starts at what she says, at who she had said it to. 

Mon smiles. “I’ve heard the word before, Nola,” at the young woman’s blush.

Nola grins sheepishly in response, then grows quiet. Mon watches the play of emotions on her face. She takes a deep breath. “Are you lovers?” she asks Nola. 

Nola smiles crookedly. “Well, at least once a year.” Mon raises her eyebrows at that. 

“We got it out of the way, pretty quick. Didn’t happen very often. We called it our ‘annual wrestling match’.” She closes her eyes, then smirks. “Probably the only times our mouths aren’t engaged in arguing or insulting one another.” Mon blushes, then shares Nola’s giggles at that thought and the picture of Nola and her unknown friend. Nola’s face softens. “There are others, for both of us. We can’t afford to be exclusive. She found—” Nola stops and touches the ring on her finger.

She stops, biting back the next words, her face falling. Mon’s eyes widen as she sees the raw pain, more than a ghost this time, show in Nola’s dark eyes. 

Nola notices Mon watching her and looks away again. 

“I thought that I may have destroyed what we had,” she whispers. Her lips and eyes quiver as she fights to keep her face from crumpling at the memory. Only the thought of forgiveness from Ahsoka, realized in the last few months or so, keeps her centered.

Mon watches her struggle, her eyes filled with compassion.

Nola’s comm chimes, breaking the moment. Mon nods at her questioning look. She looks at the screen. Her breathing starts to increase in speed at the one Aurabesh word. 

_Knightfall._

She instantly knows which one of her two charges that this might pertain to. The only two that could claim that title that she knows are still alive. 

One is spreading the myth of royalty on his birthworld. The other—

She looks up at Mon’s concern, knowing the Handmaiden mask has slipped. “I need to get to the Smuggler’s Moon.”

She looks around, sees a familiar face, one that she hadn’t noticed. A familiar face whose body is clad in an Imperial naval officer’s dress uniform. A memory flows; a memory of a time on Alderaan, just after she had arrived as a refugee from a murdered Queen on Naboo.

The feel of a thug’s wrist breaking with a perfect martial arts move, just before he would’ve sent a blaster bolt into the young woman in the Imperial uniform’s head. Another part of her thinks of the brief beginnings of a friendship, at least, with her ‘date’ to that long ago reception. She tries to remember the last letter she had written and received from that officer. A brief touch of warm lips moves to the forefront of her memory.

Nola allows a brief smile to show. The smile turns into a devious grin. Mon watches her. 

“If you can excuse, me, Senator, I think I might have my ride.” She picks up her drink and downs it. “May need some of your Senatorial mojo,” is all that she says as she rises.

* * *

Brevet Commander Rae Sloane, newly appointed executive officer of the Imperial Star Destroyer Resurgent, resists the urge to run her finger under the tight collar of her dress uniform. She brings her drink to her lips as she surveys the room. She grins as she sees her Captain, Phyllida Enolo, working the room with polished skill. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to develop that skill, if it is a prerequisite for commanding an Imperial capital ship. 

Her face flushes as she remembers her brief time as the flag lieutenant to an Imperial moff, of the time spent in soirees such as this one. She is thankful that enough time had passed that she was not tainted with the stench of treason and corruption that had cost that Moff, Jano Secor his life. One assassination attempt, in which she had borne the brunt of the injuries, had been enough to convince her to request a transfer to an advanced command course. A run-in with an officer trying to kill the Emperor and Lord Vader had marked that assignment. The transfer had not set her back in her career; she had spent several months in temporary command of a light cruiser in the Ryloth blockade, but she still wondered, even with the assurances of one such as Colonel and former Republic Admiral Wulff Yularen, as well as her new captain, whether she would advance any further. 

She sighs, making sure that her knees unlock in her stance along the wall. Her practiced eye scans over the various denizens enjoying the cocktail party—the cream of Chandrilan society. Some of who should most probably locked up for either sedition or profiteering. She shakes her head of the sour thoughts, concentrating on watching and learning from her Captain. She looks across the room and catches the eyeroll of another woman, dressed in the black service uniform of the Stormtrooper corps. Commander Pem Bouva brings her mineral water to her lips, as the Captain’s ostensible escort, she doesn’t have to wear the monag-suit of a dress uniform. 

Rae catches herself sighing again, but manages to stifle the sound. They are showing the flag, helping to support the selection of a new Imperial moff. The prime candidate for the Emperor’s choice had received his appointment after being unceremoniously kicked out his office as the elected Head of State for gross corruption. 

The Emperor giveth and the Emperor taketh away, she thinks, reflecting on the precipitous fall of Secor. For about the thousandth time since entering Imperial service from the merchant marine academy that had been her start among the stars, she wonders if she is in the right organization. As always, she sees the face of her older sister, the beloved face looking at her. In her imagination, she sees Jana Sloane, the youngest Rear-Admiral in the Republic Navy, Hero of the Battle of Coruscant, looking at her with disapproval or approval, whenever her doubts come up. 

She often wonders if her sister had prized order and stability as much as she does, even as Jana died as a servant of the chaos and corruption of the Republic. She shudders as she remembers the last view of her sister, just before her casket closed. Her ravaged body hidden in her dress uniform after recovery from the space above Coruscant in the wreckage of her Venator. Recovered after she had rammed it into a Separatist frigate, even as she lay dying on the bridge. A maneuver that had allowed two Jedi to rescue the Chancellor from captivity. Jana’s face had been calm, with a slight smile on her lips before the lid closed. 

A Chancellor whose commission she now bears, as the Emperor. An Emperor who had promised peace and prosperity. Order in the galaxy out of the chaos of the Clone Wars. She closes her eyes against the pain, then opens them, as she sees Jana smiling at her. She brings her face to its neutral, military-correct blankness. 

“Your face’ll freeze that way, if you’re not careful,” comes a voice at her elbow. 

Rae starts at the voice and turns. A young woman, several centimeters taller than even Rae, who isn’t small, stands next to her. Rae feels a smile flow over her face, at the sardonic look on the young woman’s face. A look that she remembered well from first meeting her, no more than a year after the Empire rose from the ashes of the Republic. A look that had replaced one that Rae couldn’t identify. 

“Hey, Nola. Broken any wrists lately?” she replies. 

“Not lately, Rae. I only use words and grant money, now. You tripped over your own feet, lately?” Nola Vorserrie asks. She reaches out and touches the rank plaque on Rae’s dress-uniform sleeve with the hand that isn’t encumbered by a large whisky glass. “Never can tell what these mean. You still a snotnose?”

Rae laughs. “Maybe. Just have more rank, now. XO of a destroyer.” Something briefly flashes over Nola’s face, but is quickly replaced by a warm smile. 

I get that a lot, streaks across Rae’s mind, before being replaced by the picture of the last time she had see Nola, still in her teens on Alderaan. A picture of Nola standing over a thug, dressed in a dark green and gold off-the-shoulder dress, the thug’s own weapon held butt-first in her hand, handing it to Rae. Only an instant after Nola had shoved Rae out of the way of that same blaster and knife combination. Rae’s mind flashes to her attacker’s broken forearm, snapped in a move that she had barely been able to see in the haze of pain from the blaster’s knife that had just scored her shoulder, above the less impressive rank plaque.

Rae sets her drink down and looks at Nola. Slowly, Nola sets hers down and pulls the officer into her arms. Rae returns the hug, conscious of her captain’s eyes on her. Enolo smiles after a moment. 

They break free. She looks Nola up and down again. “You look good,” she says after the appraisal. “Heard you were a government lackey on Alderaan.”

Nola laughs. Something again passes through her eyes, a wave of something not unlike what had shown in those dark eyes after she had saved Rae. An instant before tears had started to fall, quickly wiped away. She couldn’t tell then if they were tears of joy or pain. 

“No,” she replies, bringing Rae back to the present. “Now I’m in the private sector. A nonprofit on Corellia.”

“Oh, so still a do-gooder, huh?”

“You know it, deckape,” Nola replies. The several hours in which they had talked after Rae had closed the investigation of the past hadn’t revealed much, except that Nola had a biting sense of humor and a deep care for people she loved, tempered with a confusion as to her path. That and a streak of unknown grief, one that she refused to speak of. 

Rae smiles. “You know, even though you’re getting old and decrepit, that offer of going to a naval academy still stands.”

Nola’s mobile features shift again. For a moment, Rae thinks she has overstepped. Nola catches herself and shakes her head. “Now why would I want to trade this for those ever-so-stylish clothes?” she asks, sweeping her hand over the beautiful suit. Rae’s eye flash to the small ring on the third finger of her left hand, a ring with a runic inscription circling it.

“So you managed to catch that aristocrat that caught your eye when we met?” Rae asks indicating the ring. She takes Nola’s hand in hers, her thumb moving over the ring. She feels Nola’s breathing increase in speed. Not just Nola’s, she thinks. She looks at Nola, whose intense gaze is powerful. 

Nola rolls her eyes. “Nope. He proved himself to be more in love with himself than anyone else. Found someone only slightly more useful, but a lot less self-centered.” Rae notices that she doesn’t elaborate. “Besides, I couldn’t just wait around for a beautiful naval officer to sweep me off to exotic adventure in the galaxy.”

Did I mention that her flirting gene seems to be intact, even more, now? Rae thinks. “I saw you a few weeks ago on Coruscant. At another cocktail party.”

Nola nods. “Tamsin told me about it. I’m glad she was able to entertain you, if only for a moment,” she says. 

“Mildly. She did tell me what you did, now. Didn’t tell me much, though.” Rae says. “I didn’t see you after that.”

“Yeah, I had something come up on Zeltros.”

Rae smirks at that. “Usually when things come up on Zeltros, there’s a lot of nudity involved.”

Nola matches her expression. “You might think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment,” she says with a laugh. “I’ll just say that their business negotiations are much more relaxing than most.”

Rae impulsively brings Nola’s knuckles to her lips. “So, I guess somebody reeled you in?” she says, indicating the ring.

Nola laughs. “Not exactly. This is more for convenience and appearance. It just means that I’m one of the finalists for some dynastic poodoo on my employer’s world. Also helps somewhat with unwelcome attention.” Her smile grows a bit devilish. “Doesn’t scare off welcome attention, though.”

Rae is about to retort, but a functionary walks up. “Begging your pardon, Lady Vorserrie, Commander,” he says smoothly. “Senator Mothma begs a moment of your time again, milady.”

Rae looks at ‘her Ladyship’ in amazement. Nola shakes her head, a smirk in place in her eyes, but the rest of her face calm. “Don’t ask,” she says. “Let the Senator know I’ll be there momentarily.”

As the functionary retreats, Rae reaches out and takes her other hand. Nola squeezes both hands. “Got some time to catch up? Your letters kinda tapered off,”Rae asks.

Nola looks down. “Maybe.” She looks at Rae. “You know, that offer could go both ways. My organization could use a former Imperial officer.” She grins. “In spite of the poker shoved up your ass.”

“Just what I would need. A whole office full of do-gooders.”

“Not really. It’s me, an old man, and a smartass admin droid.” The grin widens as she looks at the ring. “Plus a useless royal.” She pulls Rae’s knuckles up, kisses them, mirroring Rae’s earlier move. “Maybe later, Commander, we can talk.”

As she watches Nola’s retreating form, Rae thinks about the half-offer. The thought is dispelled as she sees her captain walking over, two fresh drinks in her hands.

Enolo hands Rae the replacement drink. Her dark eyes gaze at Rae, an unfathomable expression in her eyes. “That was your friend from Alderaan, right? Four or five years ago?” she asks. 

“Yes, Captain,” Rae replies, meeting her gaze. “I haven’t been in contact much. Just a communication every once in a while. It’s been about a year or so since I last got a letter from her.” She looks away. “Lot’s happened since I last saw her.”

“Since she was involved in your investigation of Imperial data thefts, you mean?” Enolo says with a sharper look. 

“Peripherally, yes. She saved my life. We found out that our friends in the ISB were playing silly buggers with us, if you remember,” she says, her own tone a bit sharper than she had intended. “I’m sorry, Captain,” she says. 

Phyllida Enolo waves her apology away, a smile moving over her features. “No, Rae. You’re one of the few who have earned the right to speak freely to me. It’s just that I had hoped you would be able to cultivate more of a relationship with her. She got to be very close to the Queen and Viceroy of Alderaan. She was the Queen’s Hand for a time.”

“The Hand?” Rae asks, her brows knitting together.

“Kind of a combination chief of staff and prime minister.”

Rae digests this, looking over at Nola. She looks down. 

“She’s not on Alderaan, any more,” Rae says. “She’s in the private sector. At least in the nonprofit.”

Enolo nods. “Yeah. Now she’s close to Draq’ Bel Iblis. The Imperial Viceroy is very interested in anything the Dragon does, even if he has ostensibly retired.”

Rae breathes out. “I don’t know what to say, Phyll,” she says quietly. Enolo smiles, a rare gentle expression on her blank face. She reaches up and touches Rae’s arm. “I know. I don’t know what I expected when I told you to try and cultivate her.”

Her eyes move to Bouva, who hands her a comm. Rae watches as she reads. Enolo’s expression changes from its disciplined blankness to one of thunder. “Looks like you might get a chance to reconnect, Rae,” she says. 

Rae raises her eyebrows. “Apparently, since our movement to the Smuggler’s Moon was published in the Senatorial Digest, we’re going to take on a passenger or two.” She stares at Rae. “Your friend will be the principal one. Some sort of do-gooding mission. At the request of Chandrila, Alderaan, and Corellia. Their senatorial delegations.”

Rae remains silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nola and the Chandrilan Senator, Mon Mothma start in their direction.

Phyllida Enolo stares at her, then smiles. “She’s your responsibility. You’re relieved of any shipboard duties to be her liaison officer. Maybe she can even stay in your quarters, since we’re tight.”

Rae’s eyes narrow. She knows every guest cabin disposition on the ship as the XO. They are all empty. As she closes her eyes, she sees Pem Bouva smirk and make a juvenile gesture with her index finger and circled thumb of her opposite hand. 

“See that you keep her out of my hair, XO.”


	4. The Healer: Dani

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, a transformation. In the present, Dani thinks of her swordmates and her part in their paths.

**The Distant Past**

Inasia smiles as Danwyn towels off his body. She breathes in at the sight of his broad shoulders and deep chest. She closes her eyes, remembering times of joy—of pleasure. She remembers the moment that he had created life in her. As the other Links had surrounded her. All but her Ranger, and the Talker, who wasn’t quite a full Link. 

She watches as he pulls a silk robe over his body. He reaches up and releases the tie at the top of his head. His long, straight hair cascades over his shoulders, as he sits down at the dressing table. Inasia places her hands on the side of the camp tub that they had just finished sharing and rises. She picks up the discarded towel and uses it to dry herself as she steps out of the tub. His eyes roam over her body in the mirror, his lips quirking upward slightly. She knots the towel around her hips and moves over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, allowing her lips to play over his ear. She can feel her heartbeat along with his at the skin-to-skin contact on his back.

After a moment, she rises up and picks up a hairbrush. She begins to brush out the long, shining hair with even, sure strokes. Inasia watches his face in the mirror as he closes his eyes, then snaps them open. Her eyes widen at an almost subtle change that comes over him. He takes a deep breath, then picks up a small horsehair brush. He dips it into powder, then raises it to his cheeks.

As she continues to brush Danwyn’s hair, she thinks back to her first meeting with the healer. Her mind sees herself lying in chains on the sand of a beach, as the fierce band of brigands makes short work of her small host. Her first independent command, the first one that Garm had entrusted her with, after her fathers had told him that she was ready. 

She hadn’t listened to her second-in-command. In her horror, she sees the chief brigand, the first mate of a Solo family ship, draw his knife over her second’s throat, allowing the warm blood to splash over her face as she lay on the ground. The laughter of the killers had moved away. 

A remarkably soft pair of hands, soft with a underlying steel, touches her face, running a warm cloth over it. She stares up into a pair of warm, but guarded eyes. A bright blue winged snake is painted over those eyes. She remembers her lessons; she identifies it as the mark of a sea-healer of the Solos.

One of the brigands returns. He grabs the cloth from the healer and throws it into his face. The healer raises his left thumb and flicks it up from under his own chin. The pirate’s eyes widen as he turns as pale as the sand. 

The mate watches with amusement. “You shouldn’t waste your time on her. She’s going to be crucified as soon as we get to a mast and yard,” he says.

“I don’t think so,” the healer says. “She’s a Raylan-born. We might get a hefty ransom for her. Only an idiot would slaughter a money-maker like this.” At that, he had turned his back on him. 

Inasia had gasped at the pain of the slice above her hips, on her side. The pain had subsided as his strong, soft, but remarkably gentle hands had cleaned and bandaged her wounds. 

Later, as she had stood over the body of the mate, her sword drinking his blood, she had watched as others of her soldiers had executed the other pirates. All save the one he had cursed; the one who had threatened her.

He was allowed to live, as a warning to others.

The healer had stood next to her, watching dispassionately. He had wordlessly wiped the mark from his head. “They weren’t truly a family ship,” he had said at her raised eyebrow. “They didn’t earn my loyalty.” 

He had stared at her, then bowed his head. “I am Danwyn, born of Gilead, a True Daughter-Captain of the Solos. You saved my life. You’ve earned my loyalty.”

“Are you an heir, Danwyn?” she had asked later as his long hair had splayed over her chest. 

He had smiled. “Not at this moment. I’m the twin of my sister, who would’ve been the heir.”

His smile had turned mysterious. “Not everything is always, at every moment, as it seems.”

That phrase had been his watchword, even as he and her others had signed the Affirmation of the Links. He had repeated even as he had delivered their son, as those same others had placed hands on her—just as they had during the conception.

She starts as she realizes that he has finished. 

Danwyn stares at her as she puts down the brush. She lifts a gold and sywhale comb and binds the hair in an intricate, but still flowing pattern. 

She stares at the face in the mirror. The purple hue colors the eyelids, over a dark shadow under the brown eyes. Blue streaks of color, placed there by the brush, can be seen through the long hair. 

Danwyn rises and moves over to the center of the tent. A foot is lifted, then the other, as Inasia pulls up the flowing skirt to Danwyn’s hips. A tight bodice that leaves the midriff and arms bare completes the attire, along with a wide, brass-bound cutlass belt.

Inasia smiles at the transformation. 

“You’re beautiful, Danwyn,” she says. “As you always are. Whether you’re my healer, or as a Daughter-Captain.”

Danwyn smiles ruefully, blushing under the faint color on her cheeks. “So do I make a convincing Daughter?”

“You do, my swordmate,” Inasia replies. She lifts the gold coin on a chain over Danwyn’s head. A scarf wrapping around her forehead, then a matching purple sash around and over her sword-belt are the added touches. 

Inasia reaches up and touches the brand on her right bicep. A mark that had been there as long as Inasia could remember. “It’s mine by right,” Danwyn says. “My mother couldn’t have children again after my sister was born dead. She raised me as the Heiress, but gave me the choice when I could make it.” She grins. “I made a different choice. One that wasn’t a choice as all. She branded me herself.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, love?” Inasia asks. 

“I am. This is the only way that we can get to the Solos. We’ll need them, even if the rest of Aquilonia is terrified of the idea.” 

Inasia gives a brief, almost fleeting nod of her head. “Especially if Garm keeps going behind our backs to negotiate with them. We’ll need to put safeguards in place—especially with some of the less rapacious Daughter-Captains.”

Danwyn smiles, then allows her fingers to move over Inasia’s breasts, until she places her hand over Inasia’s heart. “You might have to prepare Danaeset for the possibility that his father might not return,” she says. “I may stay as my sister this time. For good.”

Inasia closes her eyes, then places her hand inside the bodice over Danwyn’s heart. “Just so long as you keep the name, my Link,” she whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

Danwyn smiles. “Always, your Eminence. It’s a name for fathers, as well as mothers.”

The wind picks up, as she ducks under the back flap of the tent.

* * *

Daaineran Faygan slowly comes awake in the dim light of an unfamiliar room. _Okay. Maybe not so unfamiliar, since it’s actually mine_, she thinks. She looks over and focuses on her bed-partner. She takes a deep breath as she considers whether or not to sleep with the Imperial Advisor of Corellia, Delilah Sam was a healthy choice in life. 

She looks at the woman’s slightly parted lips, at the light discolorations on them. She feels the slight twinge in her own lips from being connected with Sal’s. Her eyes track down the woman’s body, the covers thrown off, just as they are from Dani’s own crimson body. She realizes that Delilah’s hand rests on her left hip. 

Dani lifts up from the bed, gently raising Delilah’s head from her arm, then slides out of the bed. On impulse, she reaches down and kisses the ISB official. Delilah stirs briefly, then falls back to her deep breathing. Dani scoops up the nearest article of clothing with her foot, flipping it up in the air. She realizes as it slides over her skin that the article is the white tunic dress that Delilah had worn—the backless one that came down to her upper thighs.

It falls a bit lower on Dani, being several centimeters shorter—uncharacteristic for her people. She walks out into the living room and lifts up her datapad. 

Dani sits down, looking around several time to make sure she isn’t being watched, either physically or electronically. She checks the pad, then punches several keys; she waits as the high-res encryption kicks in. She rolls her eyes as she sees the hologame avatars populating in the chatroom. She keys in another sequence, moving to a private chatroom. 

She reads the script that appears on the screen, marveling that their highly skilled slicers were able to hijack a hologame chatroom for private, secure communications among several people who might want to rethink the entire Imperial model.

_Hey, sweet-cheeks_, says one avatar. She grins at the nickname, at the avatar of a current popular musician with a tall orange crest of hair. Much like the avatar’s owner had, just a few weeks before. _The Knightfall’s only temporary. She’s not broken anymore. Only a slight hole to be mended._

Dani closes her eyes and breathes a sigh of relief. _Ahsoka’s okay,_ she thinks. She types out a brief acknowledgement. 

Another avatar pokes into the chat room, this one with the flag of Naboo. _On a wedge. Bound for the slug’s moon to help the knight._

Dani curses under her breath as she translates. Somehow, Nola has wangled a ride on an Imperial Star Destroyer to Nar Shaddaa. She doesn’t acknowledge, but sends a coded request for help for her foster-sister, then disconnects.

Dani picks up her comm, pushing the message function. Shyla Merricope’s face pops up over the projector. Dani stares at the face—a face that had grown beloved to her over the past few months. 

One that now may have betrayed them, or at least abandoned them. 

“I’m sorry Dani. I have to do this,” Shyla says. Her voice cracks. “I don’t know what you’ll think of me, but this has to be done. Please find it in your heart to forgive me someday.” Dani doesn’t open her eyes at the pause. “For Corellia. For you and Jamelyn. For Lexa.”

She hits ‘end’, not bothering to open her eyes. 

She can’t figure out what Shyla is referring to—she had asked forgiveness the last time she had seen her, on Coruscant when they were smuggling Bryne off of the Imperial Center, after he had collapsed. 

Dani sighs, then picks up the bottle from the side table. She grins as she lifts an abandoned glass and thumbs the cork out. The single-malt burns from its first sip. As she enjoys the whisky, she thinks of her responsibilities. She feels tears form briefly as her mind’s eye falls on the smiling face and curious gray eyes of her foster-daughter, Jamelyn Blackthorn. 

Her Grace, the Elector-Presumptive of Corellia. Born, as her new friend Talle was, amidst the maelstrom of the Clone War. Born of found love between Bryne Covenant’s half-brother, Garen, and Ala Gainsefield—the purported great niece of Dooku, the Count of Serenno. The leader of the Separatists and a fallen Jedi. 

An Elector chosen so that Bryne Covenant could continue as the Protector, rather than as the Guarantor of his world. The one who guarantees the rights of her people, against the excesses of the elected and appointed leaders in the other branches of the government.

One that was needed, now more than ever, when the other two organs of state for the Five Brothers, was superseded and shunted aside by the prevailing darkness. She shakes her head at the responsibility on the shoulders of a seven-year old, even one with the watchful gravity of Jamelyn. Grave with the loss of her father, as well as the debilitating illness of her birth-mother. Dani chokes as she thinks of Ala, a former Separatist senator, now in long-term care for injuries sustained at the hands of her uncle. Dani remembers the streaks of Force-lightning playing over Ala’s body. She feels the warmth from Jamelyn in her resonance-memory. The acceptance of her as Jamelyn’s guardian. Ala had made it clear that Dani was more than a caretaker for her daughter—she was a second mother to the girl. 

After a few bumps and starts, the willful little Grace had accepted this as well, going from ‘Dani’ to either ‘mom’ or, in Dani’s birth-language, _‘abeeyeh’_. A language that Jamelyn was quickly learning, as well as teaching to her own mother in their weekly visits to Drall. 

Her heart twists as she thinks of another young woman, now partially her responsibility. A teenager, now in the care of Dani’s own mother on Zeltros. A young woman reeling from what she had called her abandonment by her mother. A mother who is now missing, somewhere in Hutt space after cutting off all contact with her loved ones. 

Her last visit with Lexa Merricope hadn’t gone well. The teenager had showed nothing but disdain and anger. Dani had wondered what she had done in a past life—a core tenet of her mother’s people, to have full or partial responsibility for two such willful young women, of different ages and backgrounds. Idly, she had wondered which of the two assholes had been the girl’s father. Dupas Thomree, Imperial stooge and Governor of her father’s world, or Dorith Panteer, Alderaan noble and bane of the Organa family. She closes her eyes; her anger rises. A noble who had attempted to embarrass and even imprison her foster sister. All for the crime of refusing marriage—a marriage that would’ve made Nola a brood mare—one more ammo pack in his feud with the Organas and his own thirst for power. She calms as the thought of his embarrassment by machinations put in place by Draq’ Bel Iblis and a previously unknown younger sister—another member of the House of Graces, as well as Alderaan’s de facto intelligence service.

Dani’s datapad dings. She nods to herself at the acknowledgment of her request for assistance for Nola. She smiles as she thinks of her foster-sister, of her growth. She looks down as she thinks of what had engendered that growth. A growth that had come as a result of doing both what was required, and probably necessary at the time. The concealment, at Bail Organa’s order, that Ahsoka’s identity was sacrosanct, even from former allies and other Jedi.

Even from lovers.

Dani purses her lips as she thinks of Nola’s pain—pain that had evolved from her anger and fear for Ahsoka and the risks that she had been taking. Their anger at each other had not been precipitated by one act. 

It had been building for some time. All based on fear and past grief on Nola’s part. She doesn’t know what had precipitated Ahsoka’s anger, before Nola had concealed that she and Bryne Covenant were alive from each other. 

Dani remembers the one conversation she had with each of them—separately and at different times in their forgiveness cycle. Her memory plays both scenes in her mind. She feels Ahsoka’s cooler skin against hers, in a rare moment of respite for both of them. She hears the high, clear voice against her ear.

“I don’t know how to tell her that I forgive her,” she had whispered. “Maybe a part of me is still angry. I don’t even know why. The objective part of me can say that she and Bail might’ve been right. Especially with the darkness that I feel in the galaxy—in the Force.”

Dani was silent for several moments. She busied herself running her fingers over the skin of the strong right arm that holds her against Ahsoka. 

She felt the indrawn breath at the sensation. “You’re welcome to stop doing that, dear,” Ahsoka managed, “sometime in the next century. It feels good.”

“What about the other part of you, Ahsoka?” Dani asked. “The part that doesn’t understand.”

She had felt the muscles of Ahsoka’s cheek move slightly with her eyes closing. “I guess that I was angry about so many things. Things that weren’t in my control. Not even in No-no’s.”

“The loss of the Jedi? The loss of your master?” Dani asked.

“Yes,” came the faint whisper against her ear.

Dani nodded. “I met him once, you know,” she said. “On Balith.”

Ahsoka smiled. “Yeah. I was supposedly resting and studying at the Temple.” She touched her right arm. Dani reached over and kissed the faint scar. “I got that defending a friend against an assassin.”

“Seems like that’s your usual idea of rest and relaxation, love,” Dani observed dryly. She allowed her features to grow serious. “That might be what No-no was so pissed off at.”

Ahsoka looked away, her lips pulling away from Dani’s hair and ear. Dani reached over and ran her lips over the nearest lek. 

“I know,” Ahsoka said. Dani lifted up from her ministrations and watched as the blue eyes grow distant. She remembered Ahsoka as a seventeen-year old on _Opportunity_. A young woman searching for her path, those same blue eyes still taking up a large part of her face, but already filled with wariness and pain from her memories. She steeled herself for what she has to say. 

“The hardest thing for Nola will be to forgive herself, Ahsoka,” she said. Ahsoka’s eyes closed. Dani pushes ahead. “You know her background, right? About Queen Apailana?”

Ahsoka nodded quickly. “Yes. I know that she was the sole survivor.”

“Nola feels guilty that she was that sole survivor, more than just of the massacre by the Imperials. She survived the aftermath, as well, when no one did.”

Ahsoka looked sharply at her, then softens. “I know. I know what she lost. She told us at the lake, remember?”

Dani recalled the interlude by that beautiful lake on Takodana. Nola had not wanted anyone’s pity for her losses.

She had welcomed their love. 

“Just know that it’ll take some time for her. You mean the universe to her—you were the sole thing that she had to take care of during that time.”

Ahsoka’s eyes widened, then closed at those words. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, then closed it. Several times. 

“I’d never thought of it like that,” she admitted. 

Dani smiled and reached over, kissing her. “No, you didn’t. You really had no cause to. But she died a little bit when she sent you out. She didn’t want to be the sole survivor again. The witness-bearer.”

Ahsoka started at those words. An echo, unconscious or not, of part of a Handmaiden’s Oath. _I exist to bear witness._

“I knew she was that,” Ahsoka said. “But I didn’t want her to mourn me. I was a Jedi. I wasn’t guaranteed a future. A life.”

Dani shoved her back on the bed, then laid full on her. “Probably worried her that you would say things like that, when coupled with the major bleeding and burns when you came back.” She tapped on the side of Ahsoka’s forehead. “Or brain trauma.”

She had stopped talking then, as Ahsoka had begun to distract her; a distraction that she had allowed, as she had felt the resonance rise. There were sounds involved, but she had remembered Ahsoka’s thoughtful expression as Dani had begun to kiss her way down her body. 

She pushes those thoughts from her mind as her mind flows automatically to a time in her more recent past, when the subject of this conversation had shared her own fears with Dani. Their conversation had not involved any pleasures of the flesh—unless you count the consumption of several thousand calories at one sitting that Dani needed to keep her high metabolism in working order. 

Nola rolls her eyes at the three plates in front of her foster-sister. She shakes her head; Dani knows that her resonance is sharing the feeling of contentment that she feels from the food. _Not just the food_, she thinks, as her eyes lock with Nola’s over her salad. 

She sees Nola look down at the greens and twirl her fork in the remains. Dani reaches over and sweeps a spot of dressing from Nola’s chin. Nola smiles. 

“You okay, hon?” Dani asks. 

“Yep,” is the only response. 

It’s only when they have paid and are walking arm in arm along the streets of Aldera that Dani is able to say anything. “I’m not buying it, _na ta’in’gere,_” she says. She looks up at her much taller companion. “Were you able to talk to Ahsoka?” she asks. 

Nola shakes her head. “No. For no more than a minute. We were both too busy. With trying to finish up everything for the Queen, before my resignation is final, and her dealing with Meglann, we just didn’t have time.”

Dani stops and turns towards her, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure? I get the idea that if you’d both been lying together on a beach without a care in the world, you probably wouldn’t have time to talk.”

Nola looks down over her sunshades. “We’ve talked a little bit. Before she went off to enjoy the orgy that’s the Festival on Zeltros.” She smirks at Dani. “Some of us actually had to work,” she finishes. 

“I think that I gave you a taste of the Festival when I got back,” Dani replies. She grows serious. “You and she need to talk more. I know that she’s forgiven you. You have to forgive yourself. You need to get to the root of your fears.”

Nola turns to continue walking. “I don’t have any fears. I know that she doesn’t,” she says in a sharp voice.

Dani hurries to maintain her grip on Nola’s arm. Her shorter legs take a couple of extra steps to keep up. She finally pulls up, forcing Nola to stop her relentless march to the Palace. Nola’s breaths come rapidly, as Dani gently turns her around. 

“You and I both know that’s bullshit. You both mean so much to one another. What do you both fear?”

“Surviving, I guess.” 

Dani stares at her, before they resume their walk. She doesn’t feel any pride that she had identified Nola’s fear. She isn’t sure that Ahsoka will ever fully share hers.

_Some caretaker_, she thinks.

Later, as she watches Nola perform her last official act for the government of Alderaan, administering a commission to their youngest, she realizes what the answer was for both of them. 

She grins as she thinks of that youngest, now making her way to find another. Making her way on her own path, with only a small crew that was now under her command. 

In only four months from that swearing-in ceremony. Dani closes her eyes as she sees Meglann’s smiling face as her uncle hugged her to him, as the others had followed suit. She breathes out at the look on Ahsoka’s face as she got her turn, after the ones had left who didn’t know of her existence. She had hugged Meglann just as tightly, but Dani had seen the expression in Ahsoka’s eyes as she did. An instant before she had presented a pride-filled, loving face to the newly commissioned Ensign.

She knows that Ahsoka controls her fears—that she must as a Jedi. But they are still present, even if they are only small fears that don’t shake the universe. She had seen a glimpse of one over Meglann’s thin shoulders. Her mind focuses on her own emotions that day. Her own pride, as the only one in uniform that day. 

The one who had received and returned Meglann’s first official salute under the peaked cap. She closes her eyes as she feels the skin of Meglann’s hand as she presses the one-credit coin into Dani’s warmer palm.

The traditional reward to the one for the privilege. She had seen the certainty in Meglann’s dark eyes as she had raised her fingertips to the bill of the cap. 

The uncertainty had returned soon after. As it had in all of their hearts, minds, and bodies.

Dani comes back to the here and now as she hears noises from the bedroom of the small apartment. Her last thought before she turns to greet Delilah is if she can help _na’ta’in’gere’a_—her sisters of the heart—navigate this uncertain path, when she’s not even sure that she can navigate it herself.

Delilah stands watching her curiously, as if unwilling to disturb her. For about the fiftieth time since they had made love, Dani is amazed at the bouts of tenderness that the Imperial Advisor had shown. These instances had been a new thing, for the most part. They hadn’t manifested in their one and only grapple back during the Academy, when Dani had been even a bit more experimental. The memory of the feel of a riding crop on her ass actually brings up the rare occasions that remind her that maybe Delilah had been a bit more tender, even then. Until she hadn’t—until Delilah had focused on herself again. 

“You were so thoughtful. I didn’t want to disturb you,” Sal says. She reaches down and kisses Dani on the forehead. Dani smiles and touches her cheek, running her fingers through the mass of reddish blond hair. 

“Nah, Del. Just thinking about my day,” Dani replies. 

“Is there anything in that day that the Imperial Advisor might need to know about?” Delilah asks with a playful smile.

“Well, not too much. I’m a adjunct member of a useless Elder Family—you know, a moth on the public purse. I’ll have a leisurely two hour breakfast, then head off to my first orgy at the ninth hour.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Sal asks with mock horror. “I’m wounded.”

“I thought about it, but the poker shoved up your ass might be off-putting,” Dani replies without hesitation.

“You didn’t have any trouble with it last night, darling. In fact you used it quite a bit,” Delilah ripostes with no hesitation of her own. “What’s next?”

“Another two hour meal at the thirteenth hour,” Dani says. 

“I can believe that. I’ve seen you eat in the Academy cafeteria. Good thing it was all-you-can-eat.”

“I had to keep up my strength when rocking the universes of the cadets who were right behind me in scores.”

“Oh, so there was more than one?” Delilah smiles, the competitive nature coming out, even now. “I remember that ranking just a little bit differently from you,” she says. 

“I don’t kiss and tell, darling,” Dani replies. “Unless it enhances the experience. Unlike some, with certain legal instructors.”

“Really? I thought you’d partaken of that particular cup,” Delilah says. She comes around and sits next to Dani on the couch. It is then that Dani notices that she is clad in her underwear and her half-boots, with her wrap around her shoulders. She looks down at her own body, covered by the rest of the ensemble. Without hesitation, she lifts the tunic over her head, rising up to clear her hips. 

“Nope,” she finally replies as Delilah’s head is concealed in the silk. “Just his ex-wife. And his son. At different times, though.” The timing has its desired effect as the paroxysm of laughter momentarily traps the Imperial in the cloth. 

“I only did it to him because of how he treated you in class, dear,” Delilah says. Dani’s eyes sting, having never head this particular part of the story. A serious admission from one who had come from such Ensterite stock as Mailyn Blackthorn and the Solos, who hated all outsiders. Especially those who looked different. Especially one that she’d eschewed any contact with after the Superintendent had mysteriously retired. An admission that had surprised Dani, with the competitive rivalry between them during the six months of the Academy. 

When she is settled, she takes a deep breath and looks at Dani. “I enjoyed last night, Dani,” she says. She looks down. “It brought back the few times that—” She closes her eyes. “When we weren’t trying to kill each other.” Her hand grasps Dani’s. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

_It actually sounds sincere_, Dani thinks.

Delilah opens her eyes. She takes a deep breath, then releases it. “Dani, I think we need to talk about Rasteen,” she says. Dani’s eyes widen at the mention of Bryne’s older half-brother. Older by ten years and the spawn of Jamestyn Blackthorn and Mailyn Blackthorn—Delilah’s mother from an assignation with Stairn Sal. She focuses on Delilah’s face. The Imperial appears to struggle with what she had said. 

Dani knows that this woman can be a champion actress, when it’s called for. 

“He’s back from prison. He’s obsessed with your family. I think he wants to see you all kneeling at the Ending Wall.”

Dani’s eyes narrow at the mention of the traditional site of Corellian executions—a place that hadn’t been used in decades. At least until the New Order had shown up. The woman next to her had threatened Dani with it, at least once, after Dani had nearly beaten her within a centimeter of her life. For the hint of attempted murder on Shyla Merricope.

A hint that had proved false in the end.

“I don’t doubt it,” Dani replies. “Didn’t know he was out. We put him there for conspiracy.”

“How did he wind up in the spice mines of Kessel?” Delilah asks. “I think the few months there made him even more insane than he might have been.”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask your Imperial buddies,” Dani says. Her heart twists at this bit of news. She can only hope that her father, the Dragon of Corellia had nothing to do with this.

Delilah appears to be making a decision. “He’s close with Dorith Panteer and Thomree. But something is off. He appears to be struggling with memory whenever Bryne is mentioned. I wonder if he knows something.”

Dani keeps her face blank as she remembers another future Link, lifting her orange hand from Rasteen’s face, opening her blue eyes—the depthless orbs troubled at what the new reality had forced her to do. Dani tries to suppress her own memories at her part and knowledge in what they had done. 

Only her father showed no remorse. _It’s a different world, Ahsoka. The Jedi are dead. He can’t expose Bryne or you. I won’t have him destroy the ones that I love, the ones that are trying to restore hope and light in the galaxy. He can’t remember._

Later, as she watches Delilah’s retreating form from the window above the still-dark street, she wonders if any of them will pay for what they have to do to restore that hope and light. 

She looks around the apartment, a place that she uses when she has to deal with darker elements. She pulls her datapad up and starts to scan the apartment for any eavesdropping devices that Delilah might have left.

She only finds two—one with a video function in the bedroom, the other with just audio. She looks down at herself with a grin, as she is still nude. Hope that they get a show, she thinks. She shakes that thought away. She isn’t sure that Delilah placed them there for her Imperial masters. _I think that she just can’t help herself_, she muses as she flushes them down the ‘fresher.

Dani wonders if Delilah is on her own path of uncertainty. Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the apartment door. She pulls on a robe, then checks the screen. 

Riyo Chuchi, the Senator from Pantora, stands in the door. She doesn’t have to ask if she has been followed.

Riyo bears as much risk as anyone. She pulls Dani into a warm embrace. 

“So what has our Nola gotten herself into?” she asks. 

“Oh, nothing much. She just hitched a ride on an ImpStar to go help your wife,” Dani replies, referring to another of Fulcrum’s cover identities. Jana Roshti, layabout wife of a Senator and sometime adventurer. She sees Riyo’s golden eyes widen with a slight hint of fear at the mention of Ahsoka.

“It’s okay. She’s hurt, but not seriously. Nola’s on her way to the Smuggler’s Moon to give some more backup.”

Riyo smiles and rolls her eyes. “That twit. I can’t let her out of my sight. I’ve got some help with me. I can get myself assigned to a fact-finding mission. I just have to get there quick.”

Dani considers this. “We have an secret hyperspace route—one that we hold close to Hutt space. You’ll be there before the ImpStar. I’ll send you some background before you leave.”

As she closes the door, Daaineran Faygan thinks of uncertain paths—the new age declared at the Affirmation of the Links. She wonders if she has already set Delilah Sal on a course as the Other. The Link not to be trusted, but used as part of the Affirmation. Something that the Covenant of Corellia was supposed to do—probably using the same method that she had. 

Delilah Sal might’ve already set her own course on that path.

* * *

Riyo Chuchi takes a deep breath as the ramp of the _Lambda_-class shuttle begins to lower. She takes a quick glance at the three men standing next to her. She smiles at each in turn. None of them appear to be happy with the fact that she is standing next to them on the Smugglers’ Moon, waiting on an Imperial shuttle to disgorge whatever surprises that it might. Riyo looks at them each again, studying them closely, starting with the largest.

Major Delan Cho, nephew of the previous Chairman of Pantora, stands solidly, his arms crossed in a relaxed stance. His single eye plays over his surroundings, but then locks with hers. He smiles at her, reassuringly, lightening the steady, professional look on his features. Riyo touches his thick arm, returning his smile. She knows that he strives every day to atone for his uncle’s excesses on Orto Plutonia—the dismissal of the sentients there as mere animals, with the resulting near-war. Riyo shakes her head, knowing that there was nothing in this young man’s makeup that he had to atone for. 

She turns her gaze to the smaller one—one who stands closely to Cho, reinforcing their friendship—their bond as tight as any, along with one other, through many years of growing up together, as well as the deeper bond of the Crucible—the rite of passage of young males on their world’s many wildernesses. A rite of passage only recently opened up to all Pantorans who wished to endure it. Shilmar Keveen, a Prelate in the Moon Goddess’s worship, gives her a cheeky grin on his narrow features. He drops his eye in a deep wink, an expression not generally seen on others of his station. Riyo laughs at Cho’s eyeroll. She knows that Ion Papanoida, the son of the current Chairman, and the third of their tight circle, had insisted on them accompanying her to Nar Shaddaa, knowing he couldn’t go himself. She had protested at first, but had given in when Teon Jenks, her chief of staff and the fourth of their party had added his voice as well. 

Delan’s bulk and tactical mind, as well as the blaster hidden in her cleric’s robes, had moved the argument in Ion and Te’s favor. She touches her own blaster underneath the sash of her dress. 

Teon is the only one not armed, preferring to talk his way out of any situation. Riyo touches his arm. He nods quickly, then turns towards the figures disembarking from the Imperial shuttle. 

Nola Vorserrie walks next to an Imperial officer, as a squad of Imperial stormtroopers files off in front of them. The first thing that Riyo notices about the young woman is the defiant set of her sharp features as she converses quietly with the Imperial. The second thing that she notices is that the strong shoulders of the Imperial are set in almost as defiant a fashion as Nola’s features. Anger plays over the officer’s own dark skin. 

A slightly older officer walks behind them, dressed in the blacks of the stormtrooper corps. Amusement plays over her otherwise blank face, her hand rests on the holstered blaster. Riyo steels herself for this particular conversation.

“—I’m perfectly capable of handling myself, Rae,” Nola says. “I don’t need the goon squad, here. It might actually cramp my negotiations for the refugees.”

The officer know as Rae stops and turns full-on towards Nola. “I don’t care. You were shoved down our throats by the Senate and command. I’m going to make it my business to keep you safe.”

“Safe, or monitored?” Nola asks, the usual acerbic tone of her voice sharper even than normal. 

“Maybe a little of both, little girl,” the stormtrooper officer breaks in. 

Nola turns towards the officer, still a few centimeters taller even than the stormtrooper. “Well, the Senate says differently, Pem,” she says. 

“I guess you can go back to calling me Commander Bouva, since we’re not at dinner,” Pem replies. She stares at Nola, not backing down. “Just because some pinhead Senator or political Admiral says that we’re to provide transport, doesn’t mean you can’t follow our protocols. I’d be perfectly happy throwing your cute little ass in our brig and charge you with a violation against Imperial order.” She looks over at the naval officer, Rae. “I’m less trusting than some.”

Rae moves closer to the stormtrooper. “You might want to rephrase that. Captain Enolo instructed me to give all assistance to Ms. Vorserrie.”

Bouva smirks. “Is that why she was in your quarters?”

Nola’s eyes flash dangerously as Riyo moves closer. “It might be a bit more difficult than you think, darling, to do the throwing. I’m not at dinner with the Captain, either,” she says. She looks at both officers. “Neither of you have any authority over me, now that I’ve reached my destination. This is only an Imperial planet in the loosest sense of the word, since it’s a Hutt world.”

Riyo steps between them, to De’s consternation. “Enough. I’m Chuchi.” She pins Bouva with a razor-sharp stare. “One of those Senatorial pinheads.” Pem Bouva looks at her, with an intent to retort. Rae jerks her head at the stormtrooper commander. She stares back at the naval officer, then turns back to her squad. 

“Commander Rae Sloane, Senator. It’s not safe here, especially for an Imperial Senator,” the naval officer says. 

“We have our own security—both Pantoran and Corellian. We need to be able to move freely in the circles that we have to.”

Sloane looks at Nola, who is calming, as is Sloane. “I know. But in addition to my orders, I’m kinda fond of this twit. Might even owe her a bit. I’d like to make sure she’s safe.”

Riyo feels her sculpted eyebrows rise at that. Nola’s look remains unreadable. “You don’t owe me a thing, Rae,” she says. “I think you might’ve paid it in full a second after I kept you from getting shot.”

Rae’s face remains impassive, her dark eyes hard as they walk away. Riyo catches a glimpse of Bouva putting her hand on Sloane’s shoulder.

“So, where’s my wife?” she asks Nola after they have taken a moment to embrace tightly. They have slipped into an alley, making sure that there is no Imperial tail.

“She’s probably closer than you think,” Nola says with a smirk. 

Riyo starts, and De goes for his weapon as a cloaked figure lands right next to her. A Mando in full black armor follows at the more sedate pace that her jetpack allows. 

Riyo resists the urge to jump into her old friend’s arms. She can tell from the warmth in Ahsoka’s eyes that she is struggling as well. A twinge of pain flows over her features. Riyo’s heart stops for an instant as the expression moves away. Ahsoka turns to Nola and pulls her into her arms, just as tightly. Riyo sees the shadow over Nola’s face. Ahsoka breaks away, then pulls her hand to Nola’s cheeks. The look that passes between them speaks volumes.

Riyo feels no jealousy. The two of them have been through lifetimes more together than she and Ahsoka. She is secure in her friendship, and her cover ‘marriage’ to another of Ahsoka’s aliases. 

De, Shil, and Teon turn away. Before they do, Teon grins and says. “Give Covenant a kiss for me.”

Riyo is about to reply with snark of her own when she screams. Nola merely gives a sharp intake of breath as Ahsoka leaps with both of them in her arms. Straight up to a hovering corvette, with the colors of Corellia.

A few minutes later, the three of them are safely ensconced in a private cabin. She sees Ahsoka sit down heavily, the pain again evident on her face. She doesn’t even bother to take the light hooded cloak off. Riyo and Nola look at one another and walk over to her. They pull the cloak off, then her scarf and flight jacket. Nola lifts the left side of her top.

Riyo gasps at the healing wound, its ragged edges almost gone. The speed with which she had gotten into bacta this time will ensure that she doesn’t have a scar. Riyo reaches out and runs her fingers over another scar, one that hadn’t gotten treated early.

She shakes her head, remembering that she has an audience. Nola smiles warmly then replaces Riyo’s hand on the cool skin, her own hand resting on it.

Riyo sees Ahsoka’s face calm. “So,” Ahsoka says. “Sorentin Rhayme.”

Riyo rolls her eyes at the mention of her onetime bodyguard and mentor. “I guess this is where you remind me that I unleashed him on the universe by choosing to send him into exile rather than making sure he was locked up? He and his Zabrak buddy?”

Ahsoka Smirks, but then allows the thunder over her face. “I should’ve known that those two gundarks might come back to bite me in the ass,” she says. 

“We’ve been keeping some tabs on him,” Riyo responds. “Major Cho ran into them on Ord Mantell a few weeks back. He was being his usual scheming self. Gral was keeping him a bit in check.”

Ahsoka nods. “Yeah, they’d left Stornan awhile back. Didn’t think the respectable farmer thing would work out. I gather that their wives aren’t with them, or there’d be at least one calming influence on them. Gral’s wife that is. She’s level headed. Or as level headed as a protégée of Fenn Shysa can be.”

Nola grins. “Tehlen Skirata’s keeping tabs on Rhayme’s latest wife for us. The one that you remembered from Mandalore. I’m not so sure that she’s with him anymore.”

“Well, I think I owe them a bit of pain,” Ahsoka says absently. 

Riyo narrows her eyes. “Didn’t think that you’d be into revenge, Jana,” she says, using her ‘married’ name.

Ahsoka starts. “Huh?” she asks, her eyes moving to Riyo’s. She shakes her head. “No. Not what I meant.”

“I figured, Ahsoka.” Riyo says. 

Nola grins. “She just means that she’ll be a pain in the ass to them at some point in time. She’ll maybe give me a rest.” She notices that Ahsoka doesn’t rise to the riposte. Riyo sees her look down and away. 

Riyo touches Nola’s hand, then sticks her finger in Ahsoka’s exposed navel. There is a brief spasm of giggling as Ahsoka focuses on them. “You just went kind of distant on us,” Riyo replies.

Ahsoka nods, then looks at Nola’s downcast expression. She pulls Nola’s cheek to her lips, resting them there for a moment. Nola smiles after a moment. Riyo marvels at the unspoken language between them.

“Sorry. I’m thinking about what I’m doing here,” Ahsoka says. 

“Shyla?” Nola asks. 

“Yeah. I thought she was going to be the new Dragon. She was going to contact her Hutt friend—if anyone can have a Hutt friend—and then head back to Corellia to be Covenant and Dani’s boss,” Ahsoka muses. “Then she starts playing games. Going off the grid.”

“What does Draq’ say?” Riyo asks. They both look at Nola.

She shrugs. “Draq’s been off the grid as well. I think he might actually be taking retirement seriously.” She looks at the port; at the bright lights of the city planet. “I can ask a couple of acquaintances.”

Riyo notices that Ahsoka’s eyelids are drooping. She touches Nola’s arm, then points. She is struck by the soft look that Nola gives Ahsoka. 

They both rise. Riyo gently lets Ahsoka stretch out on the couch. She pulls the cloak over her. She follows Nola to another cabin. 

As they sit on a couch, Nola pulls out her comm. There is a message light blinking. “There’s one of those ‘acquaintances’, now,” she says. 

She pushes the redial. A small being, with reptilian features and a graying topknot stares at them with gray-blue eyes. Riyo raises her eyebrows as she recognizes the Falleen.

This one, shows a hint of humor in his now-blue eyes. She can detect a softening of the features—perhaps with human influence. There is something familiar about him.

“Hello, Seoladen,” he says. Riyo nods at Nola’s new codename. The mythological Conduit between the nine Corellian Hells.

Some of which are already known to Riyo. 

His eyes focus on Riyo. “This is Advocate,” Nola says. “She’s cleared to a certain level.”

He nods. “My name is Malaky,” he says. Riyo’s heart grows cold at the casual mention of a shadowy spice lord. She keeps her face hidden.

He turns his gaze back to Nola. “Shyla called me. She asked for some help in going dark.”

“Did you give it?” Nola asks sharply. “Does the Brother know?” Riyo rolls her eyes; thinking that they’re all going to strain something with all of these codenames. 

“He’s not answering my calls,” Malaky replies. “I gave her some advice. Seems like she’s already squared away.”

“How so?” Riyo asks. 

He focuses on her. Riyo is struck by the warmth in his gaze—something she didn’t expect from a crime lord. “The comm she sent. I had it analyzed. It has some Hutt traits. It seemed to originate on Nar Shaddaa, but I could tell it was actually somewhere else.”

“Do you know where?” Nola asks. 

“Somewhere in the Core. Haven’t narrowed it down. Not Corellia, though.” He takes both in with his gaze. “I’ll keep you informed.”

Nola looks at Riyo. “So, should we abandon the Moon?” Riyo asks. 

Nola takes a deep breath. “I don’t think so. As soon as our napping beauty wakes up, I think she should stay here. Maybe we’ll get more information that can send us where we need to be.”

“Until then?” Riyo asks.

“Got a deck of cards?” Nola replies with a grin.

Riyo closes her eyes. She immediately thinks of the last time that someone had suggested that. 

Two someones. A Zeltron cop and a Corellian Elder Family member.


	5. The  Youngest: Meglann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young woman comes into her own, both in past and present. A path continues.

**The Past**

Inasia laughs as Arten tightens her sword-belt. Somehow, as usual, he had managed to snake his hand underneath the layers of armor and clothing to run an index finger over her ribs. She swings her fist into his bicep. Close to them both—within arm’s reach, Terias is going through a similar ritual of armor-donning, albeit with her doing most of the actual work. Inasia grins as Delae’s long fingers move over Terias’s ass.

Her grin grows wider as Arten receives the blow for Delae’s impertinence from Terias as she finishes her belt. 

She turns back to Arten and reaches over to kiss the spot on his bare arm that she had struck. His hand moves to her cheek as her laughter fades. She touches her forehead to his, knowing that he will be gone when she returns to the tent. Inasia is aware of the other two moving close to them, pulling her and Tal into a tight embrace. Arten grins as he moves his lips to each one in turn. 

Inasia closes her eyes, managing to keep her tears from showing. She feels Terias drawing her away, towards the tent opening. The young woman lifts both of their helmets from the table by the opening; she hands Inasia’s to her. Inasia tucks it under her arm. With her free hand, she stops Terias before they exit and pulls her towards her body. Once again, she feels the stiffening at the affection. She squeezes tighter, until the slender young woman relaxes and leans in to kiss her. 

As they exit the tent and acknowledge the guards’ salutes, Inasia looks at Terias, stops her after several steps away. She looks at her paladin, waiting expectantly.

Terias looks down and away; she takes a deep breath. Her eyes move back to her Covenant’s. “I think we’re making a mistake, tying ourselves to Garm. He’s weak, even among his own lords. I’m not sure he’s the one to unite the Families.” She looks to the toes of her boots again. “I’m sorry, your Eminence. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to you and your decisions. But I felt like it had to be said.”

Inasia feels warmth flow over her features. It is not the warmth of anger at her officer’s opinion. It is the warmth of pride that spreads to her chest. “You can always disagree with me, my love,” she says. “The Hells know that Delae never holds back with her opinion,” she says with a dry smile. She is rewarded with a careful smile breaking out across Terias’s tired features. “But, I ask you to keep an open mind. It’s why you’re coming to this meeting with me, rather than Delae. You’re just as smart as her, but you have more fighting experience than she does, even as young as you are. Plus, I think Garm will underestimate you, because of your background and his.”

They start walking again, until they come to Garm’s ostentatious tent. The four guards at the entrance, including a subofficer, stare at them with blank faces. She feels her paladin’s anger spike. 

“Inasia, Covenant-Hope of the Brother, to see King Garm,” Terias finally says, her voice firm, but quiet. 

The guards continue to stare at them. Terias moves to push past them. The spears of two of the guards cross, blocking her path, but only for a moment. In a move so quick that only Inasia sees it; a small dagger appears in Terias’s hand. The point of which is placed at the officer’s leg. Inasia grins as she sees that the point is at the precise location of a flaw in the chainmail. A flaw that happens to be over the major blood vessel in the thigh.

“Her Eminence has a standing appointment with your pissant King,” Terias says. “It’s kind of why he’s only known as ‘his Grace’, now, and she is ‘her Eminence’. If he wants to be have ‘majesty’, he might want to see us.”

“Suddra, let her in,” comes a deep voice from within the tent.

Inasia and Terias walk through the flap as the two spears are pulled away. Their eyes adjust to the candle-lanterns. A sound from the inner chamber of the tent draws them in. Inasia rolls her eyes as she realizes that Garm Draqson stands naked in a corner of the bed chamber while his squire sponges his body off with tepid water. The squire is equally unclad; Inasia’s eyes are drawn to the wide camp bed. A young woman stretches languorously on the bed, an open scroll and stylus near her. 

Garm turns and looks at her, his dark eyes locking with hers. She maintains the gaze. A snort comes from the paladin next to her. She glances over at Terias, who is looking unflinchingly at Garm’s middle, a smirk that would do Tal Arten great credit on her face. 

“Like what you see, milady paladin?” he asks. His tone is light, as well as his eyes, now looking at Terias. “Is it the sword-swinger or the cleaver-swinger who is judging?”

Terias allows the smirk to grow wider. “A little bit of both,” she replies. “One prefers larger weapons, the other, larger portions.”

Garm’s head rares back in laughter. He shoos the squire and the ‘scribe’ out, reaching up and pulling a a pair of leggings up. “Perhaps you’ll join me in a demonstration of my skill with a sword, milady?” he asks

She smiles. “I do have others who can give me insight to your skill,” she replies, glancing at Inasia, who remains expressionless, “but I might find time to hone them.” She starts to say something else, but stops

Inasia shakes her head at the cheek from the younger woman, then winks at her. “Perhaps after we finish the discussions at hand, my paladin and your cavalry commander will help you wash your back, your Grace,” she says dryly.

Garm sits, pulling a loose shirt over his head, then motions them both to the couches opposite. He holds up his hands as they remove their weapons and sit. “I know what you’re going to say, Inasia. You’re going to say that we can’t trust those sea-going brigands the Solos. Well, I’m close to negotiating something that might give us an edge against the Northerners.”

Inasia smiles. “You mean your coming marriage to one of the Solo daughter-captains?”

Garm’s blue eyes, a match for hers, show no sign of surprise. “I guess either Lenatus or that mongrel that you call a ranger told you.”

Inasia doesn’t react to the riposte. “Perhaps. But it’s all over the Northern Reaches. The Sals aren’t too pleased that we would bring in the Sea-bound to ports on this continent.”

“I’m not too pleased that your Thought-Mage has been treating with the Sals—a Family who has always been our traditional enemies—enemies of both your Family and mine.”

“Well, the Sals recognize that we have an opportunity to unite this continent, to defeat the Sumans of the North, who have been murdering and burning along the Reaches for centuries.” 

Garm picks up the decanter near the couch and pours three glasses. Inasia smiles as she recognizes her family’s main export from the clear waters of Whyren’s Deep. She pours the three glasses of spring water that should accompany any sample of that smooth liquor. Garm is thoughtful as he contemplates the amber liquid. 

After a moment, he nods to himself, then looks at her. “You think we can unite this continent? We’re only one coast of it.”

Inasia smiles. “Yes, but we, all the way to the west to my family’s holdings, have managed to keep the main Families from destroying one another. Something that hasn’t happened since the power of the Nine Continents—the Hells—were broken up in favor of the Families.” Her smile grows pensive. “It hasn’t happened on any of the other continents.”

He smiles and nods in agreement. “It’s quite possible that how Mainside goes, the other continents will go.”

Inasia sees Terias stiffen. She shoots a calming look at her, then turns back to Garm. “You need to keep the Dragon hubris in check, Garm. I’ll support you for the High King of Mainside, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to fight another campaign to make you an emperor or the Diktat. I think that you might have your eye on that, if you go through with this marriage.” He stiffens with anger, then calms.

After a moment, he nods. Inasia gets up; Terias starts to follow. Inasia places her hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to meet with the Companions of my host. I think I’ll let you get to know your cavalry commander a bit better, Garm. After all, she’ll be the one to keep those fractious lords and dukes in check.”

“I hope that they choke on the fact that you cooked for us, Terias,” Garm says with conviction. “I think that you’re an excellent choice for War Duke. I’ll support you for it.”

Terias’s eyes are wide at the sincerity in his voice. “Perhaps some breakfast, then?”she says. 

_You see why I think he is the better choice? None of the others are as open-minded_, Inasia thinks in the direction of her Link. 

As if she can read her Covenant’s mind, Terias nods at her. She rises and walks over towards Garm, as Inasia turns and walks out of the tent. 

Inasia wonders in her mind and heart if she has made the right choice. In spite of his open-mindedness, Garm will go his own way, if left unchecked. She can only hope that she and her Links can provide that check on his path.

* * *

Meglann Florlin waits in the back booth of the small rooftop restaurant. She sets her caf cup down and pushes the remnants of her eggs-and-bacon meal away. The absentee diner-owner grins as the server droid rolls over immediately and deftly removes the plate and refills her caf—fixed to the specifications that it had noticed after her first cup. 

She shakes her head. _Kinda takes the fun out of fixing your own caf. Gives you some mindless activity before you have to figure something out._

Like how the hell she had wound up sitting in the early morning heat of Mos Eisley spaceport on a world that she would’ve never found herself on six months ago. 

Tatooine. 

She looks out over the uniform tan and brown buildings; then further out into the desert wasteland. A far cry from the lush green forests and mountains of her birthworld. She thinks about what she does know.

She knows that Tatooine is about as close to Hutt space that Lassa Rhayme gets. She is even loath to come here, after a misunderstanding with Jabba the Hutt. A misunderstanding that had occurred in the closing months of the Clone Wars. No more than a week before Lassa had hired a new cook. A new cook who had turned out to be a Jedi named Taliesin Croft—accompanied by his young Wookiee padawan.

A meeting that had indirectly led her to this desert world. A meeting that had opened up so many different adventures—including one that connected another two of her sword-mates, Nola Vorserrie and then Ahsoka Tano—to Lassa and her crew. 

She feels herself flush as she remembers when Lassa had told her about these adventures. Lassa’s sharp Pantoran accent echoes in her mind as she drowses in the bed of the captain’s cabin on the _Opportunity_. Lassa’s knuckles and fingers tracing over Meglann’s bare back and ass, as they both attempt to rest. 

A story completed just before those fingers dip lower, bringing more screams about. Meglann shakes those thoughts away, knowing that they won’t help her on her mission.

A mission to help find Lassa Rhayme. A mission assigned to her by yet another sword-mate, Dani Faygan. She does take a moment to feel the pride at the description of the relationship of the Links. An ancient term for those closer than friends and comrades, but not related. Close enough to bask in each other’s bodies in moments of light in the darkness.

Her comm buzzes with a message from a member of another group that she belongs to. A group that serves as the Companions to the Links. A group known now as the Hells, after those who conquered the different realms in the mists of Corellian history and mythology. She grins at her own codename. 

_Ina_. Known as the Hammer. The conqueror of the Fifth Hell—the Realm of Creators. Meglann looks down at the small representation of one interpretation of Ina’s symbol. 

A small frying pan charm, hanging from the zipper of her field jacket, lying on the bench next to her. 

She reads the text again, her grin growing into a soft smile. The author of the text is an adopted Alderaani with a thick beard concealing his mouth. One who she is particularly close to, as he had placed himself between her and a blaster bolt. A leap that he himself had felt was redemption for his part in the destruction of her previous life and the death of a grouchy Nikto cook.

A part that she had never blamed him for, but one that had led him to resign his position as a Peacekeeper of Alderaan. She smiles as she hears his near unintelligible accent—a product of his dual heritages from a planet known for pilots and one known for warriors—in her ear as she hugs him in his medbed, after he had awakened. 

A Pamarthen-Mando inflection that she is one of the few that can understand on first hearing.

Murta Locke. Also known as Damab, the Steersman—the conqueror of the Ninth Hell. The Realm of Stars. Perfect for an expert pilot. 

She rises from her table, leaving a few credits, including, out of habit, a tip. As she walks by the server-droid, she pushes another credit against the metal skin. The droid’s photoreceptor stares into her eyes as it reaches an appendage out and takes it, pulling back inside its mechanism. 

Meglann steps out into the street, avoiding an unidentifiable pile in her path. She hears a snort behind her. She turns and stares up into the laughing eyes of another of those Companions—the name for the original officers of the Covenant’s Companions, which had eventually become the Rangers of Corellia. An organization that had existed, in one form or another, up until a few months ago. 

Boge M’Faru, yet another former Alderaani peacekeeper now in the service of Corellia, touches her arm, pulling her from another sticky path. Boge’s huge frame shakes with more laughter. She punches his arm, then returns his touch. His eyes crinkle in the corners. She reaches up and rubs her hand over his smooth-shaven head. He looks down with an incongruous shyness. She laughs, then pulls him to her.

A former collegiate smashball run-blocker, Boge had switched to the protection of peace on his homeworld, before the Republic navy had called. A brief stint in the Imperial navy had convinced them that he might not be amenable to orders and discipline. He had returned to Peace and Planetary Security.

A path that had led him into the orbit of Bryne Covenant, as well as a young diner-owner searching for her own path. Maxim—the Watcher was his place in the Companions. The avatar of the Eighth Hell, the Realm of Shields. An apt description for his life as an athlete and a peacekeeper.

“Murta’s on the move. He may have a lead on some of Lassa’s crew, from after Lassa went dark,” she says. 

He nods. “Yeah. I’ve been poking around, too,” he replies. She sees the proactive eyeroll and blush coloring his _wroshyr_ wood-hued skin at her expression. “Focus, twit. Not everybody’s obsessed with their nethers, like some I could name.”

“Our leader?” Meglann asks innocently. Their shared laughter draws looks from the surrounding crowds, all of whom seem to be shuffling around in a purposeless fog.

“Him, and a few others,” he finishes. 

“The offer’s been there, big guy,” she says as they pull into an alley for the spaceport. She puts her arm through his and turns towards the north. She rests her head on his massive arm, just for a moment. She had followed his career in college with a schoolgirl’s obsession, never dreaming she would someday be working beside him. In his own way, he had helped her heal from her losses; he’d encouraged her to take her own path. She touches the rank plaque in her trouser pocket.

She stops at the Aurabesh indicator of a particular docking bay. She looks around. No one is around. She checks her comm. 

“Is this it?” Boge asks.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Ninety-four. Murta’s source is supposed to meet us here.”

“Well, I ain’t waiting around too long,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Unlike some, I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“I’m not sure any of the places around here could feed you, Tank,” says a Twi’lek accented voice behind them.

They both whirl, but Meglann’s face lights up with recognition.

She finds herself in the purple arms of Thyla Secura, Lassa Rhayme’s chief navigator. An instant later, Meglann is sandwiched between Thyla and a massive amount of fur and muscle.

“Hey, Biggo,” she says to the Wookiee engineer, attempting to breathe as she is squeezed against the other by the powerful gray and bronze arms encompassing both of them. Thyla takes the opportunity of the close proximity to give her a brief kiss and squeeze of her ass.

Ritaambiggo finally releases them both. Meglann refuses to show any sign of the lack of oxygen. She does rub her chest in a spot where Biggo had once slammed her massive fist into her chest. The Imperial stormtrooper armor had absorbed most of the blow. 

Most of it. 

“Where’ve you been, Thy?” Meglann asks, a few minutes later. The four of them are soon ensconced in a back booth in the nearest down-at-its-heels cantina. Meglann wonders if her college days had prepared her for the amount of drinking before noon she would do in her new career as she eyes the huge mugs of beer that Biggo had ordered for them. 

Biggo looks at her challengingly as she wipes foam from her facial fur after downing the drink in only a few gulps. She slams the mug down, making the Ithorian in the booth behind them jump. 

Then hastily leave. 

Meglann takes up the mug, glad that she had been working on strength with Drop. She manages to swallow the entire serving, without coughing. She returns the challenging look without a word. 

Thy grins at them fondly. “Now that the ritual pissing contest is over, I can answer your question, dear,” she says. “We were here looking for supplies. Me and Biggo, as well as Adis. It was happenstance; all of us needed things.” Her remaining eye narrows. “All of us mysteriously had to go because the people we had available turned up sick.”

“This was planned,” Meglann says. “Is it just the three of you?”

“Yeah. Sohlwey and Gri either went with them, or they might be—” Thyla trails off. 

“What the hell brought this on?” Boge asks. 

“A useless asshole in the deck department. Loganer. He’s been making rumblings about calling for a vote on Lassa’s captaincy.” Thyla looks down. “She wouldn’t take him and his little gang seriously.”

Meglann nods. “I remember him. I thought he was going to throw down with me when I came on board. So if they voted her out, how come they didn’t give her a chance to leave? I thought the Articles required that,” she finishes. 

Thyla and Biggo look at one another, giving each other a brief look of something that almost looked like pride. “You’d think so. She has the right to stay on in any crew capacity. She might be biding her time. She knows that Loganer could fuck up a wet dream, so I don’t know.”

“I do,” says a sharp voice near their table. Meglann rises and runs over to Adis. He holds her tightly for a moment. It is the young Nikto next to him that draws Biggo’s attention. In another moment, they’re all seated. 

Gri wastes no time. “They put the ones who voted for Lassa in a lifepod and ejected us. Good thing that Adis was looking for our distress call. Or we’d still be out there in the Dune Sea.”

“What about Lassa?” Meglann asks. 

“She challenged Loganer to a gunfight. Instead, one of his minions—one that came on with him shot her in the back with a stun bolt.” Gri smiles. “Took four shots to put her down. That’s when we were rounded up and sent off.”

“Where’s Sohlwey?” Thy ask.

Gri looks down at the table. “She went with them. I think she voted for Loganer.”

Meglann and Thyla both run their hands sympathetically over his cheeks. The Weequay Master-at-Arms, responsible for discipline on the ship, had been like a mother to Gri.

“So where did you get these winners?” Boge asks. 

“They came in dribs and drabs as we were building the crew back. Lassa was not wanting to take them; she got some bad vibes. We were at a breaking point. It’s after you and Sohlwey left,” Adis says to Gri.

Ritaambiggo joins in the conversation. +”Loganer used to be part of the Ohnaka gang. To hear him tell it, he was Hondo’s right hand,”+

“Not exactly a sterling reference,” Boge observes.

“Like I said. We were at a breaking point.” Thyla says. 

“Who’s Ohnaka?” Meglann asks. 

All of the pirates remain silent. Finally Thyla speaks. “He ran a pirate crew out of Florum. He had his day before and during the Clone Wars. Kinda fell on hard times.” She looks down. “Like all of us.”

Meglann is thoughtful for a moment. “Do you think we could find him?” 

“Why would we want to?” Boge asks. “From what I understand, he wasn’t exactly breaking out with consistency in who he chose to betray or help.”

Meglann looks at him questioningly. “He fought the Jedi on a couple of occasions if I remember the stories correctly. Then helped them out on different occasions.” He looks around, then focuses on the pirates. “Including your Quartermaster.”

“Is she available to help us?” Thyla asks. 

Boge looks at Meglann, who breathes out. “Not right now. She’s kind of embedded into the middle of a problem that she might not be able to get out of easily. She and Dani sent me.”

“That’s just great,” Thyla says, her accent becoming stronger. “Lassa would probably move heaven and earth to help her out. All she’d have to do is bat those big baby blue eyes at her,” she finishes with disgust.

Meglann feels her anger rise, but allows it to calm. “Did I mention that she has another hole in her? I think you’re kind of reaching for someone to be pissed off at. You might want to back up a bit, dear,” she says, the heat on her skin spiking. “Especially since she came to save your ass at Lassa’s request.”

This doesn’t mollify Thyla. “So she sent the Junior Varsity and the has-beens,” she says angrily, standing up. 

The calm comes from an unexpected source. Gri places his hand on Thyla’s arm. “Thy, you need to calm down. This isn’t helping her. It isn’t helping any of us.” Thyla’s left eye narrows at him, but she sits. 

Meglann reaches out and touches Thyla’s arm. “We’ll do our best. I’m pretty sure that Ahsoka’ll be here when she can.”

Thyla closes the one eye. After a moment, she places her hand over Meglann’s. “I’m sorry, Junior,” she says. “I know.” 

She smirks at Meglann’s eyeroll. “One of these days, Thy, that nickname’s going to bite you in the ass.”

She hears the groan from all at the table before Thyla replies. “I look forward to it, kitten. If you’re doing the biting.”

Biggo voices their snark. +”You’ve been hanging around these Corellians too long. The flirting’s rubbed off on you,”+ she grunts. 

Boge whispers the translation to Meglann, whose Shyriwook is still in the learning phase. 

As the laughter calms, Meglann looks at Thyla thoughfully. “Was there any one thing that started this whole shit sandwich?”

Thyla and Biggo look at one another for several moments. Finally, in unspoken agreement, they nod. “There was a Corellian who joined the crew. Kind of a smooth talker, like most of them are that are able to actually leave Corellia,” Thyla says. 

“Some of ‘em that stay can have that patter as well,” Meglann says. “What did he do?”

“It’s odd,” Gri say. “He didn’t really hang out with Loganer. He and his girlfriend seemed to be hitting it off with Lassa.”

Meglann sighs. “Hitting it off, how?” she asks suspiciously. 

“Surprisingly, not how you’d think. He didn’t seem to be a candidate to get shot in the ass like some of the other gomers she’s been with. I think that she liked to talk to him.”

“He had a girlfriend?” Boge asks.

Thyla takes a sip of her drink. “I use that term loosely. I don’t know if they were kriffing. She was in the gunnery department. He was helping me out—a decent pilot.”

“What were their names?” 

“Rik Duel and Danalaan Torstan,” Gri says. 

Meglann and Boge look at one another at the last name. 

“Was she—”

“Yes. She’s a Zeltron. Pretty young, though. Maybe seventeen or so.”

A memory stirs, of a half-remembered conversation while lying on a beach with a family. A family that happened to be headed by the Zoetarch of Zeltros—the elected monarch. A story of a runaway daughter.

One named Danalaan Torstan. 

Thyla sees the expression on Meglann’s face. “What?”

“Not much,” Meglann starts, “There may be an added twist. If it’s who I think it is, she may be related to the leader of Zeltros.”

“I don’t rightly care,” Adis speaks up for the first time, his headdress and tendrils shaking slightly. “If she’s involved in harming Lassa, she might come to a premature end.”

Meglann says nothing, but her mind reels. She knows that Ahsoka, Dani, and Bryne had been unofficially helping in the Torstan family’s search for their daughter. Something about finding their family before Boman and Kanyly, could complete their marriage to Sina Faygan’ii, Dani’s cousin. 

Thyla places her hand on Adis’s arm, their eyes meeting. “Okay,” she says. “We’ve got some of the ‘who’ and the ‘why’, but we need to figure out the ‘where’. As in ‘where’ the hell they’ve gone. 

“Might want to give more than a little thought to the ‘how’,” Boge observes. 

Adis stares at him. His eyes narrow at the third large being at the table. “It’ll be easy. We find them, ask them, and then space them.”

Boge grins. “Easy,” he says. “You got any idea where they might be? Plus, y’all didn’t exactly break out in brilliance in letting her get taken.”

Adis stands up. “Yeah? I wonder if you could do any better, flatfoot? You don’t strike me as a deep thinker.” Boge starts to stand as well. Meglann places her hand on his massive arm, pulling him down. He stares at her, sees the look in her eyes. He nods slightly. 

Meglann gets up and walks over to Adis. The heavyset gunner looks away. 

“Where’s this coming from, bud?” she asks. “You’re usually the one that makes us all think.”

He looks at her. “I know, Junior. But this is Lassa. I owe her a lot.” He looks around at the other crew members. “We all do.”

Meglann looks at the others, tossing credits on the table. “We’ve got a place for you all on the _Draq’stone_. We’ll start trying to figure it out.”

“We’re going to go get the few others who bailed with Gri,” Thyla says. “We may just want to stash them somewhere safe. I’m not sure of a couple of them.”

Meglann’s comm buzzes. She sends a text back. “That’s your Quartermaster. I’ll fill her in.” As they all rise. Meglann embraces them all, in turn. She shifts her gaze to Boge. “Give them a hand. We’ll rendezvous in a couple of hours at the _‘stone_.”

Boge stares at Adis, who returns the scrutiny. “You okay with that, Fatso?”

“I might be, for now, asshole. Just stay the fuck out of my way.”

Meglann and Thyla look at each other. As one, their eyes roll. 

A few minutes later, Meglann is seated in the captain’s cabin in the belly of the old _Consular_-class, now entrusted to her care. 

Four holograms flicker into existence. 

“Hey, Port,” Bryne Covenant says. She grins at the old nickname—a diminutive of a ‘girl in every port’—a running joke between her, Ahsoka, and him.

“Hey, Stud,” she replies. She sees Dani, Nola, and Ahsoka looking at each other and them. “I miss all of you.”

Four expressions of pain, followed by smiles flicker in the hologram. “You too, love,” Dani says. “Hopefully there might be a beach in our future—when we get through with this. My cousin and her future heart-bonds have posted the banns for the bonding ceremony. It’ll happen next month.” She grins. “The Second Festival month is always a good time to bond.” The grin fades. “They figured they’ve delayed it long enough, hoping for someone to come home.”

“I may have some news for them on that front, Dani,” Meglann says. “Their wayward daughter may be caught up in Lassa’s situation.”

All of them are quiet as they digest this. “That’s good news, I think,” Dani says tentatively. “Especially since she plays an important part in the bonding. The youngest child has to be there to complete the circle.”

“So what’s the plan, Meg?” Ahsoka asks quietly. 

“We found Thyla and a few of the others. They were marooned here on Tatooine. Between us and Drop, who’s on his way, we’ll get them somewhere where we can start looking for the _Opportunity_.”

Ahsoka looks at Bryne. Meglann catches a ghost of a look between them. “I think you should send them to Corellia with Boge and Murta. Then you and Drop and Talle go to Nar Shaddaa and finish up with finding Shyla.”

“Is there a break on that front, Bryne?” she asks. 

He looks at Ahsoka and nods. She answers for him. “Maybe. I think we’re close, but we may need to head elsewhere. I’m not sure this is what we think it is.”

Nola speaks up. “I may stay here and wrap things up. My ride may get a bit suspicious if they brought me here and then I up and leave.”

“Okay,” Bryne says. “It’s your call, Runt,” he says to Ahsoka.

Meglann is touched to see the smile that Ahsoka gives him at the old nickname. “Okay, Bait. Tamsin’ll stay here and get Nola to wherever she needs to go. We’ll figure out something to tell her new Imperial girlfriend why she’s leaving, if she has to.”

Meglann giggles at the expression on Nola’s face. Nola reaches out from her hologram to her right. A disembodied hand appears in Ahsoka’s and shoves her out of the pickup for a second.

All five of them gaze at each other for a long moment, before the hologram deactivates.

Meglann feels a tickle in her chest as she thinks of them all, of their new path. A path that has them all together in one sense, but all over the galaxy in the physical sense. She thinks of her own path—her own part in the game. She has already faced death several times in the last few months. She feels like her fear of death has subsided—if her fear of heights still hasn’t. There is a greater fear in her heart and mind. 

The fear of failing those other four, or their larger cause. 

The door to the cabin opens. Thyla Secura stands there, a fierce expression on her face. Meglann’s eyes widen at the old Weequay, a strange shell-like hat on his head. He peers out through protective goggles. 

“Hello, my dear,” he says in an accented voice. “My name is Hondo Ohnaka. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I’m a legend in the Outer Rim. I’m here to solve _alllll_ of your problems. For the right price, of course.”

_Great. Another fucking pirate_, Meglann thinks. “Just what I need,” she says dryly.

* * *

Thyla Secura smiles as the young girl—a girl who looks only about ten years old guides the battered, tri-winged gunship in for a landing on a crowded platform. Talle dodges high buildings on the city planet as she spots several figures at the edge of the platform. 

Beside her, in the co-pilot’s chair, Meglann watches in awe at the girl’s skill. Thyla turns her own gaze to the pilot’s father. Tarre Tredecima, once known as Null-13, but still called by his trooper’s name, stands right behind Talle. A young girl, a product of a malevolent experiment, but no less loved by her father. Thyla’s heart flips at the look of pure pride in Drop’s amber eyes. Once again, she wonders where Rex—her companion on several adventures, right after she had left the _Opportunity’s_, crew—had gotten to. Both of them had healed together—she from the loss of her twin at the end of the War, he from his experiences on the frontlines as a clone officer. She shakes her head, then brushes the slight tears away from under her single working eye.

Thyla notices Drop watching her, his sharp gaze on her face. His slightly-different-from-his-brothers-face softens as he sees the obvious memories playing over her face. They both start at a slight lurch as the ship, known as the _Purring Tooka_, touches down. 

Drop starts to say something, his eyes lighting up with snark. Talle, without turning, raises a finger at him. “Don’t even say it. You and I both know that we would’ve barely gotten on the ground if you were flying, _Pops_,” she says. Meglann laughs at Drop’s expression. 

As Thyla joins in, Drop shrugs and says, “She takes after her mom, sometimes,” he says. She sees the dark shadow over both almost-identical faces. Both she and Meglann look at one another; the sadness is apparent in father and daughter. 

A sadness that lasts only for an instant before Drop and Talle are laughing at something else. Thyla grins as she sees the brief expression of thunder on Meglann’s face.

“—that’s what you get when you make me let somebody else have the stick, old man,” Talle is saying.

“Oh, strong words from somebody who needs a bumper seat to drive the thing,” Meglann retorts. 

“Yeah, well, you just showed that having long legs don’t make you a good pilot, sweetie,” Drop says. 

Talle moves over to Meglann and squeezes her tightly. “Not bad, ‘glann,” she says. “You’re coming along. Only another landing or two, and you’ll be better than him,” jerking her thumb back to Drop.

“Ain’t saying much,” Meglann and Thyla say in unison.

They all grow serious as they move to the hatch located below the cockpit. As it opens, Meglann runs down and hugs the tall hooded figure standing there, next to a small Pantoran woman in fine clothes, and a young woman with multicolored hair in black Mando gear. 

Ahsoka smiles as Talle walks up. She kneels down and pulls her close, closing her eyes at the embrace. Ahsoka rises and touches Thyla’s cheek, as well as Drop’s.

“So, what the hell did you do with Hondo? Could you possibly have dropped him out of an airlock?” Ahsoka asks, with only a tiny bit of hope in her voice.

“No, not quite. I sent him with Adis, Biggo, and Gri. They’ll be heading to the Core, but I didn’t think we needed to take him to Corellia.”

“So what’s the information that he gave you?” the young Pantoran asks. Thyla looks at her, wondering what part she plays. “I’m Advocate,” she says quietly. 

“He had a couple of things. Some of his old crew, which he somehow misplaced, were some of the ones that might have taken over Lassa’s ship. The leader in particular—Loganer—was one that he kicked off his crew, before the misplacing,” Meglann says. 

“And the other?”

“Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure did a job for him a few months back,” Thyla says, taking up the story. “He gave us a lead that might lead us to their little hidey-hole here.”

“Do you trust him?” Ahsoka asks. “I’ve had mixed results in trusting Hondo. One time I wound up with a blaster butt upside my head. The next time, he saved my life when my own bad judgement got me a knife in the ribs.”

“Well, if he screws us, we can always have Biggo tear him in half,” Thyla replies. Meglann looks at her, as if unsure if she is being serious or not. 

Ahsoka grins. “Perhaps,” is all that she says. 

The woman with the green and purple hair and black Mando gear breaks in. “So should I ready a cabin for Ms. Pirate Princess here?”

Thyla watches as Ahsoka’s expression changes. “Maybe. Unless you and she are going to hit it off enough for you to bring her into your cabin, Tamsin,” she says dryly. 

Drop’s lip curls as he places his hands over Talle’s ears, drawing a glare from his daughter. Talle wiggles her way out of it, then stares at Tamsin expectantly.

Thyla feels Tamsin’s gaze on her, starting at her toes. “Maybe,” Tamsin says. “But I was giving you and the Ensign first dibs.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be in anybody’s cabin,” Thyla says. “I’m kinda picky now. Plus I need sleep.”

Talle ends the conversation. She walks up to Thyla and looks up at her, though she doesn’t have to look too far. “You can stay in mine,” she says with great dignity. “I’m sure the old man wouldn’t mind doubling with the crew.” She shoots a look at her father, who rolls his eyes.

“Be prepared to talk about flying, Charts,” Drop says. “She talk your earcones off about it.”

Thyla smiles, then places her hand on Talle’s cheek. “That’s probably the best offer I’ve had in awhile, Talle,” she says. She shoots a look at the other adults. “I’m sure that everyone will find some way to entertain themselves.”

Tamsin doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m just glad that the whole refugee crew didn’t join us. Otherwise, I don’t think that we’ve ever had this many criminal scumbags on my ship.” She looks at Thyla. “Except for when Fulcrum is aboard by herself.”

Ahsoka starts to says something, then thinks better of it. Thyla can see that Tamsin is going to pay for that crack, at some point. 

“So what’s the plan, for the two thugs we need to talk to?”

“I’m sure that Drop can be persuasive if he needs to be,” Meglann says. She grins at him, then looks sheepish. 

“Yeah, I’m kinda looking for a rematch with Kruvure,” the ‘persuader’ says with his own grin.

“Oh please,” Ahsoka says. “You nearly got your old ass kicked the last time.” Talle giggles with Fulcrum.

“Hilarious, Mouse,” Drop replies. 

“Anytime, Beast,” Ahsoka says. She blows him a kiss.

For a moment, Thyla is struck by the warmth and care that each of these fighters have for one another. Something that she hopes to experience again.

When they find Lassa.

Tamsin’s comm buzzes. She reads the text on the tiny screen.

“Looks like my once-again boss has taken things into her own hands. Nola has eyes on the hidey-hole. She’s ready to go in,” Tamsin finishes. 

Ahsoka rolls her eyes. “Tell her to wait until we get there. Although I know it’s like pouring fuel on a fire.” She turns and starts to walk off of the platform.

“I guess we’re going now,” Drop says dryly. 

No more than fifteen minutes later, Thyla, Drop, Tamsin, Ahsoka, and Meglann are pulling up in front of a small house sandwiched between two larger commercial buildings, on a middle level of this section of the city-planet. Thyla grins as she remembers the dark, thunderous expression that Talle had given her father when told to stay with the ship. After a moment of arguing, she had whirled and stalked back into the ship and its cockpit. It had taken a whisper from Ahsoka for a slight smile to appear on Talle’s face. Thyla makes a mental note to ask her what she had told the smaller, female version of the large ex-commando standing next to her

Thyla’s eye widen as Drop stops them short and pulls them into the shadows of another large building across the narrow street. Her heart twists a tiny bit as she recognizes the tall young woman standing in front of the house. Her mind streaks back to the memory of a younger version being led onto the _Opportunity_ by the Jedi and ship’s cook, Taliesin Croft. Right after Croft, a Zeltron gunner’s mate, and a few other Jedi and clonetroopers had freed her from a Separatist determined to increase his retirement by holding her for ransom. She remembers the pain on the teenager’s face—pain mixed with a look that resembles that of one who has no problem putting her head through a brick wall.

Or, at the very least, argue the wall into breaking. 

She comes back to the present as she sees Nola practicing that skill with an Imperial naval officer—a slightly older—but not quite as tall—young woman. Several fleet troopers mill about.

Thyla follows Drop’s finger. She shakes her head as she sees two very large figures kneeling on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs. She remembers the holo of Lassa’s father, Sorentin Rhayme—the cocky grin and large frame, with the familial tattoos of multicolored, sideways crosses under his eyes. 

“Yep,” Ahsoka says. “That’s Sorentin and Gral.”

“So what do we do?” Tamsin asks. “I’m betting on Nola. I’ve been on the receiving end of that look that she’s giving that Imp.”

“No bet,” Ahsoka says. “But I’m not sure that she’s going to charm her way out of this one.”

“Ain’t exactly charm,” Tamsin says dryly.

“I got an idea,” Meglann says. She is looking down at her comm, her eyebrows rising, an instant before a grin replaces the expression.

Before any of them can stop her, she moves towards the argument. 

“Well, that tears it,” Ahsoka says. She looks at Drop. A look passes between them. She moves back into the shadows. Drop checks his weapon before holstering it, then pulls the hood up on his jacket, concealing his nearly-recognizable features. 

Tamsin pulls her helmet on. Both of them move out, following Meglann, looking all the world like the young woman’s minions.

Thyla feels the wind rush by her as she suddenly feels herself deposited on the roof of the nearby building. She starts to say something, but thinks better as Ahsoka releases her with a grin. Another timed jump—timed for more attention to be focused on Nola and the officer; the argument is in full swing, and they’re both looking down from just above the tableau. Thyla listens to the byplay. 

_More like a verbal boxing match_, she thinks.

“—what the hell are you doing, using Imperial resources like this? Or better yet, _misusing_ them?” the officer asks, her voice sharp in the dim light of the lower level.

“What do you mean, misusing, Rae?” Nola replies, her voice surprisingly calm. “These two idiots have important information about a threat to refugees that the Crowneshield Foundation are hoping to help. I have a legally issued investigation warrant from an Imperial magistrate on Corellia.”

Thyla looks over at Ahsoka. She sees the eyebrow markings rise under the scarf that covers her montrals and lekku, a half-second before she sees an angry look grow on Ahsoka’s face.

“What?” she whispers.

“You think she could’ve been any more reckless? What if that Imperial arrests her?” Ahsoka spits out. 

Thyla feels the muscles of her single eye strain to keep from rolling. She stops fighting. Ahsoka notices and starts to speak, then stops. 

“Pot, meet kettle,” Thyla says dryly. 

Ahsoka closes her mouth. Another second, and one corner of her mouth quivers, trying not to quirk upwards. They continue to listen.

“What’s going on here?” Meglann says in her version of an official voice. 

_Not bad,_ Thyla muses. 

“Who’s asking?” Rae says with suspicion as she sees the two minions behind Meglann. Her eyes widen, then narrow again as they fall on Drop’s somewhat familiar features. 

“Alderaan,” Meglann says. She pulls a datapad and presents it to Rae. “Florlin. Consular Security Forces. My world has a claim on these two for interfering with our diplomatic operations.”

Rae doesn’t bother looking at the proffered device. She stares at Meglann, then turns to Nola, whose face takes on an innocent expression when Rae turns to her. “What the hell are you trying to pull, Nola?” she asks. “I think that you and your little band of ‘do-gooders’ are using me for some scam. What kind of windfall is the ‘Crowneshield Foundation’ going to get out of this?” She jerks her head at the troopers, who wisely decide to depart. 

She stares at Nola for a moment. “I hope you think it was worth it,” she says, in a voice so quiet that Thyla and Ahsoka have to strain to hear. “You used me. You used our friendship—or at least what I thought was a friendship. If I had evidence, I’d put your ass in jail.” 

“Like I’m sure that your Captain hasn’t told you to ‘cultivate’ me,” Nola says. Thyla looks closely and can see tears forming slightly in Nola’s dark eyes. “She practically tried to recruit me at dinner. Both her and her psychopath, Bouva,” she finishes. “So who’s using who, _Commander Sloane_?” 

There is a surprising amount of hurt in Nola’s voice. Thyla wonders if she is that good of an actress. A glance at the pain on Ahsoka’s face says that she might not be.

Thyla moves her gaze back to Rae Sloane. For an instant, there is a hint of vulnerability—of hurt. 

Just a tiny hint, before the face slips back into an Imperial mask. 

“I think we’re even, Nola,” Rae says, her voice flat. “I better get out of here, before I remember my duty and look closer at you.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Rae,” Nola says. “I’m only trying to help people. Maybe if you look at the people and not just ‘order’, you might find something. Something that I saw in you as a friend, if not something more.”

Rae stares at her. She reaches out and touches Nola’s cheek. The hand lingers. It drops to her side. “Without order, people can’t be helped.” She starts to turn. “I had some good laughs, Nola. I’ll send your stuff to your hotel.”

Nola watches her retreating form. Thyla sees her smile wistfully as she and Ahsoka walk into the street. 

“We’re clear, Fulcrum,” Tamsin says, dropping her hand from her bucket’s earpiece. “Obie confirms that they’ve left the area and left no listening devices.”

Ahsoka nods absently. She walks over to Nola and places her hands on her shoulders. “You okay, No-no?” Thyla can see the stiff shoulders relax

“Yeah, Fulcrum. I’m okay. I might need to go a little deep, just in case she changes her mind about looking closer,” she replies. 

Ahsoka turns to the two behemoths, who are struggling to rise in their bound hands. Her eyes sharpen as they fall on the Iridonian, Kruvure.

Of course, Sorentin speaks up. “Hello, my dear. Fancy meeting you here. Could you take these damned binders off?”

Ahsoka ignores him. Kruvure looks away under her gaze. “I’d like to talk about how deep the shit is that you’re in, bud,” she says quietly. Thyla grins at the raw, unfamiliar menace in her voice. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do to you for trying to kill me.”

Gral manages to snort, in spite of the menace. “Of course dear. But if I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” he says. “Plus, I know what you used to be. You won’t do anything to me or even him,” he finishes, jerking his head at Rhayme.

Thyla steps up. Sorentin and Gral look at her. “I’m a pirate. They say I’m a criminal. Nearly got hanged a few weeks back for it. I’d have no problem cutting either or both of your ball sacs off and having our cook here saute’ them.” Thyla sees Meglann giggle out of the corner of her eye, but she focuses on Sorentin. “Especially for what you’ve done to my Captain, Pops.”

Thyla is rewarded by the look of concern that flows over Sorentin’s features.


	6. The Trusted Other—The Pirate: Lassa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One pirate challenges for the crown. Another lies in jail reflecting on her sins.

Inasia feels the pull in her shoulders as she rows the small dory. Behind her, Delae curses softly as her oars get tangled up with those of Terias, who is rowing smoothly. 

“C’mon, idiot. Don’t you have any rhythm?” Terias whispers fiercely. 

“Depends on what I’m doing, kitten,” Delae whispers through gritted teeth. 

“Do you think that both of you could shut up?” Inasia ask. “Why didn’t we just bring a gods-damned brass band?”

“They wouldn’t fit in the boat,” Delae responds without pause, her voice dryer than the interior desert she hailed from. “Why couldn’t we bring Taliesin to handle all the rowing? It’s what he’s good for.”

“I can think of a couple things he’s good for,” Terias snarks, just as quickly as Delae had.

Inasia can almost hear her teeth grinding. “Because,” she says patiently, “that part that we all seem to be fond of might get cut off if it had reared its head and was revealed to be in attendance at a Challenging. Not to mention the fact that we probably be hanging from whatever yard is free with spikes through our wrists, waiting on our lungs to drown us.”

“We might still be enjoying that little party, if that particular something else pops out on our challenger,” Delae observes soberly.

Inasia nods. “Maybe. But our contender is of the blood of a respected Daughter-Captain. She was raised to be the Daughter-Captain. Fortunately the Solos are known to be open-minded about these things.”

“Mostly,” Terias adds. “I don’t think Jelena might be one of those. She might twist Dany into new and different shapes.”

Inasia holds her hand up, signaling silence. Through the fog, they can hear a sharp bell and the clanking of weapons. They fall silent as they continue rowing. 

Within moments, they are staring up at the sides of a huge sailing ship. A crewmember hangs over the side, a lantern signaling them. Inasia’s eyes track up the side of the ship. She sees Terias cataloguing the weapons that are pointed at them. 

“Are you Garm’s lackey?” the crewman asks bluntly. There is only a hairbreadth of time before he curses as his head bobs in the water. Terias looks at Delae with amazement as she examines her nails. 

Inasia smirks for a moment, then look at the crewman floating in the water. “I’m no one’s lackey. I serve the Brother.” She looks up at the entry port, where loud laughter floats down. As her eyes fall on the port, she sees the weapons pulling back from pointing at them. She looks at the other two Links, who nod. As the senior member, she scrambles up the planks nailed into the hull of the ship that lead her to the entryport, first.

She is soon standing on the deck of the raider’s ship. She looks around at the mass of the Ship-Family, all staring back at her. Her eyes light on a familiar face; she allows her eyes to shine a smile in the face’s direction. 

As Terias and Delae clamber up in succession and stand next to her—Delae with a dark expression on her mobile features, she stares at the current Daughter-Captain. Jelena Solo stares back at her through ice-blue eyes that nearly match those that stare back at her in the looking-glass every morning. Even though her chosen ally stands tall and with broad shoulders, she is dwarfed by the blond giantess who stands opposite her.

Terias takes a deep breath next to Inasia as she sees the massive arms continuing to undo the sword belt. She looks over at Dany, who grins back at them with confidence.

Confidence that Inasia only mostly feels.

She smiles as Dany begins to pace back in forth before Jelena, as if suddenly struck by lightning and energized. Jelena watches her with something like amusement.

“So why should I even be bothered by a pissant like you?” Jelena asks in her incongruously high pitched voice. 

“Because you owe my mother, Gilead, everything, Jelena. You’d be nothing without her—probably still a deckhand on a less lucrative ship.” She stops pacing and stares at the larger woman. 

Jelena smiles dangerously. “Yeah. Probably because her only blood-kin had to go off and find something else to do. Because she was weak.”

Dany smiles and then begins to unbutton her mantle. In a quick movement, she drops it to the deck, revealing the dark skin of her shoulders over the tight bodice that remains. There is a collective gasp and then murmur as the assembled Captains and crew spot the brand on her right bicep. 

For a moment, Inasia sees indecision in the blue eyes of Jelena. Just as fleeting, the expression is gone as she smiles. 

“Anybody can get a brand, dear,” she says smoothly. 

“Yeah?” Dany asks. “Where’s yours, upstart?”

There is a chuff of air as Jelena rushes Dany and seizes her in a caricature of a tight embrace, tightening her muscled arms around Dany and shoving her to the nearest bulwark. As Dany’s back is bent over the rail, she manages to free her hands and slap their palms against Jelena’s ears with a loud crack.

Jelena releases her with a slight scream; Dany follows the ear-slap with a sharp uppercut to Jelena’s nose, then applies her own version of the tackle, managing to lift the larger woman up and slam her to the deck. Jelena flips her and tries to put her massive knee into Dany’s chest. Dany manages to slip out from under her, but is still trapped under the Daughter-Captain. 

Inasia’s heart begins to race as Jelena places her knees on either side of Dany’s hips. She manages to hold one of Dany’s arms above her head to the deck, as the other hand, Dany’s strong hand begins to repeatedly pummel Jelena’s face. 

Blood begins to dot the deck and Dany’s dark skin from the blows. There is a yelp as Jelena manages to bring her broad forehead down to impact Dany’s nose. Inasia winces as she hears the crunch of the blow. Beside her, Inasia can feel Delae tense with apprehension. She takes the thinker’s hand and squeezes it, hoping that she imparts some sort of confidence to her. 

Confidence that she isn’t feeling at all. She grins as she sees her young Paladin, Terias, sizing the crowd up, trying to spot the weaknesses. Just in case they have to engage. 

Engage with only the hidden knives about their bodies. 

Jelena cries out as Dany manages to rise from the tiny bit of leverage gifted to her by the head-butt. As she does, Jelena’s knee rises between Dany’s opened leg. Dany grits her teeth as the knee makes contact. 

Inasia sees Jelena’s eyes widen at what she finds. She starts to open her mouth. At that moment, the Covenant-Hope sizes up what could be lost with this discovery—especially in this setting. Never mind how open-minded the Solos are about roles. She closes her eyes, visualizing Jelena’s throat. Her mind applies just enough pressure.

She comes back to herself at the roars of the crowd. Dany stands alone. Jelena lies on the deck, unconscious. Inasia is gratified to see the steady rise and fall of her chest. 

A willowy young blond woman—a young woman who bears softer versions of Jelena’s hard features, mixed with the handsome features of the man who follows her, approaches Dany. Inasia catches the eye of the man, a man dressed not as a sailor or a warrior, but as a Thought-Mage. Delae takes a deep breath as the two kneel in front of Dany. 

The young woman lifts a large knife, handle-first, to Dany. Dany takes the knife. Without a word, Jelena’s daughter lifts her chin, baring her throat. Her father mirrors her movement. 

“You must finish us, Captain, in order to claim the Fleet-Captaincy. You must spill the blood of Jelena and her issue.”

Dany looks down at the knife in her hand. She looks over at Inasia and her fellow Links. She smiles, then kneels next to Jelena. She takes her unnamed daughter’s hand, then brings the knife up to the palm. She makes the tiniest of cuts. 

A minuscule amount of blood drops to the deck. She repeats the cut on the girl’s father. She looks down at Jelena and grins. “I think I’ve drawn enough blood today, my girl,” she says. She reaches over and kisses the young girl, then kisses her father, and finally her mother, who is still unconscious. “What’s your name?” Dany asks. 

“Rissa,” the girl replies. 

Dany nods. “I think you still have a duty to the Home-fleet, Rissa,” she says. “I’ll not spill any more Solo blood.”

After a moment, the father speaks. “I have very little standing here. But I’m sure that the daughter of Gilead Solo will lead us well.”

“As do I,” Rissa says. She stands and turns to the other Captains. “Does anyone here have a different point of view?”

There is silence, until a voice from the back yells, “The Fleet has a new Captain!” Others take up the cry. 

Inasia walks up as several crew lift Jelena from the deck and follow her family with their burden. She embraces Dany, then gives her a deep kiss. Delae and Terias fall into the embrace. 

Danwyn stares at the Covenant. “So I guess she lost her voice right at the opportune moment,” she says dryly. 

“Yeah,” Delae says, before Inasia can answer. “But it was your left hook that put her on the deck.”

Terias touches her on the hip, then moves her hand gently inwards. She caresses what she finds, within their tight embrace. “Do you think she’ll cause us trouble?”

“I don’t,” Danwyn replies. “I defeated her, plus I have this,” she says, touching the brand on her arm. “Lot of people remember my mother and her leadership. They’re hoping for a little wisdom.”

“I think that young girl will help,” Inasia says. “Especially now that you control the marriage-price to Garm. We’re that much closer to uniting the south.”

Delae smirks, then looks at Terias. “I guess we do have ol’ Garm’s balls in our hands. You want to be the one to break it to him at your next ‘conference’, dear?”

Terias shoves her to the laughter of her three loves.

* * *

Lassa watches as her father’s latest wife closes her mother’s eyes. She stares up at the woman that she refuses to call her ‘other’ mother. 

Lilandra waits patiently as Lassa rests her forehead on the cooling skin of Tendra’s arm. Patiently for about five minutes. Lilandra walks over and gently—as gently as someone like her can, lifts Lassa from her mother, drawing her away from the bed.

Lassa looks around the tiny room, the room that Lilandra had allowed her and her mother to share. Lassa feels her teeth grind at the touch of her father’s wife. As she is lead away from the room, she wonders if this will be the last time that she sees her mother.

_It won’t be long before it’s the last time that I see this shitty little room_, she thinks. Her home for the last five years, ever since General Sorentin Rhayme had decided that he had better leave his homeworld, one step ahead of a date with an auto-garrote. A date that would include the current Chairman pushing the button to close his windpipe. 

Again. 

Lassa tries to quench her anger, her anger at everything in her life. Lilandra stops and stares at her. “A fourteen-year old shouldn’t be so damned angry,” she says. Her thumb moves over Lassa’s cheek. “It’s time that you got some tattoos, dear,” she adds in a softer tone. “To tell everyone who you are and where you come from.” Her features darken. “I might even let you add something to remember that woman in there.”

Lassa jerks away from her touch. “What the hell would you know about our ways?” she snarls. “Plus, why the hell would I want anyone to know that I came from that old bastard?”

Lilandra draws her hand away, her eyes hard. “You might want to remember that little legal document that gives me the power of life over you, girl,” she says with a slight menace to her voice. “Or the alternative.” She places her hand on Lassa’s arm. Lassa sees the fingers curling as they prepare to grasp—a vise that Lassa knows well. 

Lassa stares back at her defiantly. She slowly pulls her arm away from Lilandra’s. It is at that moment that she sees the fine lines of age beginning to show through the makeup on the Mirialan’s yellow-green skin. A part of her—most probably the part that she inherited from her father causes a smile to move over her bare face. 

Lilandra’s features twist into anger as she raises her hand in the air. Lassa catches it in mid-slap. She stares into Lilandra’s blue eyes. Lilandra’s eyes widen as she realizes—probably for the first time that Lassa now looks down on her. 

They stand there for several moments, frozen in a tableau of restrained violence. Without a word, Lilandra jerks away from Lassa and turns away. At the last moment, just before she exits the room, she turns around. A slow, malicious smile paints over her face. “You’re just like him. Moreso than any of your older brothers and sisters. You’ll probably wind up strangling on an auto-garrote, someday.”

Lassa is left to digest this. 

But not for long. 

She moves back to the small room. Her heart twists as she discovers that her mother has already been removed from the bed that they share. _Had shared_. Lassa fights her tears, fights them for several moments. She realizes that she can’t breathe; that her chest has constricted with her grief. She gives in; the wrenching sobs tear through the quiet air of the room. Lassa slumps against the wall. Several moments pass as she stares at the now empty bed. 

She shakes her head, reaching up to wipe her tears, wondering if she’ll ever cry again. Lassa pulls herself up, then walks over to the bed. She pulls the small bag that she had hidden months ago—when the last woman that her father—_no, the man who had contributed genetic material_ had married—had struck her. A bag filled with necessities, but with a tiny space for memories. She opens a drawer, pulling several small wooden and stone objects from the drawer. Objects that commemorated her life, as well as Tendra’s. She takes a deep breath, then discards them all. All except a small figurine in black stone. A tiny representation of the moon goddess on a flat disk. She lifts it and the small piece of rawhide. A moment and the disk rests under her shirt. 

Lassa walks over to the small closet. She grins as she kneels down. A touch to the floorboard in a particular place and method and she is lifting a small section from the bottom of the closet. She lifts the five objects within, and places them on the floor. 

She unsheathes the blade of the knife, a knife that just fits in her boot. Lassa takes a deep breath and picks up the small blaster in its holster. She places one of the powerpacks in the grip. She lays it on top of her clothing in the small bag. She takes a deep breath. A shove of the window and she is in the back garden. She takes a moment to look at the large, airy townhouse. 

A large structure that she and her mother had only been allowed to use a small space in, except for the small servant’s kitchen. A kitchen that her mother had made warm with the traditional dishes she had made for Lassa. Just as she had made all of the tiny space warm for her daughter. 

Lassa grins as she thinks of other warmths—warmths that Sorentin Rhayme had taught her. For a half second, she considers unleashing some of the mayhem that the Thought-General of the Pantoran All-Highest Strategery (at least she thinks that’s what it’s called; it seemed to change from each rare visit) had taught her. 

_Speaking of warmth_. She shakes her head at those thoughts. Lassa Rhayme rubs her hand over her cheeks. She smiles at her reflection in the moon pool’s clear water. As she starts to walk down the path that will take her to her new life, she pulls the disk from around her neck. She touches the side. 

Lassa stares at the holo of her mother. A laughing visage, from before her sadness and her illness. She deactivates and replaces it in her shirt. 

She looks up as she feels her surroundings shift. She realizes that she is lying down in a narrow bunk. Her eyes widen as she sees a much more mature version of herself lying naked on the mattress. She shakes her head, wondering why she is no longer on Pantora and seems to be older than when she had left Lilandra’s house. 

Her thoughts of her escape vanish as warmth moves through her lower limbs. She looks down and sees a pair of mischievous black eyes gazing at her over her middle from a crimson-skinned face. She idly catalogues the effect that shifts his normally hazel eyes to that light-consuming black. The _Modula._ An indicator of strong emotion among his people. 

Laine Constan lifts up from his ministrations and grins lazily. He shifts his gaze down to her feet, located somewhere near his own middle. “I think your toes might be curling, Lassa,” he says. 

She moves her toes downward, eliciting an indrawn breath as her skin makes contact with something other than his belly. “I don’t know, bud,” she breathes against his forehead. “You’re going to have to do better than that, for any digit-twisting.” She screams slightly as two of his fingers move inside her. She giggles as she realizes that the fingers are slightly twisted together as they move rhythmically in and out of her.

“Smart-ass,” she manages to gasp out. She feels his resonance flow over her, reflecting both of their emotions—even those as base as lust, but higher emotions as well. Something she is not sure that she had felt before, even before the lust that he had grown in her, for the first time.

She doesn’t dare say what that emotion might be, even to herself. 

Lassa feels one, then another resonance join his. “It’s a family trait, love,” says a warm voice. “I’ve been putting up with it for five years.”

She looks over at the other bunk at the two crimson figures moving together. Cona Sleerin na Constan’ii looks up from her own objective, her dark blue eyes transitioning to the black. The former mind-healer grins at her, just before she returns her mouth to her heart-bond. A yelp is heard as she applies her teeth to the crimson skin of her victim’s thigh.

Chienne Constan’ii shares a long-suffering look with Lassa, before her eyes glaze at the movements. The Captain of the _Chalice’s Heart_ adds her voice to Lassa’s as the sensations blossom into dual explosions. 

_Family night on a Zeltron ship_, Lassa thinks with a wry grin, as her breathing slows. _Beats game night any day_. She smiles at Chienne’s younger brother as he places one last kiss to the lavender curls at her middle. 

A insistent beeping cuts through her consciousness. Chienne and Laine jump up and move towards a console. In spite of the alarm, she gazes over their figures with appreciation. She feels Cona’s eyes meet hers, then roll.

“Trade Federation frigate!” Chienne yells. “Everybody up!”

As her feet hit the deck of the small freighter, Lassa screams as the scene shifts. She finds herself staring at her family. All three of them stare back at her from blackening faces.

All three of them swing in the breeze, simple nooses around their necks. She feels her own noose tighten as she shifts her feet on the stool—the only thing keeping her alive. Incongruous thoughts flow into her mind, along with grief and terror. She catalogues the stool as one from a bar, last seen in the Trade Federation—_no, the Separatist Confederacy_— Commissar’s luxurious quarters. Lassa sends the thought away as the grief and fear overwhelm her. She lifts her foot to kick the stool away.

The scene shifts again. She feels anger rising as she stares at the Corellian’s own angry visage, his green eyes sparking with something other than just anger. 

Pure grief. Grief for his kind. For his loves.

She forces herself to calm. “What the hell were you thinking, Tal? You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” she hears herself saying. 

He says nothing, but looks away. Lassa takes a deep breath, then forges ahead. “Not to mention the fact that you could’ve gotten some of my crew killed. Especially Adis.”

Croft stares at hers. She can see the emotions competing on his face. “I thought that I was part of your crew, Lassa,” he whispers. 

His words and his tone cuts through her, twisting her heart. She closes the distance, taking him in her arms. She closes her eyes at the stiffness of his body. He slumps, relaxing, but still wary. “You are, love,” she says, lowering her voice. “I want you to live. Ahsoka wouldn’t—”

She stops as she sees the shadow pass over his unfamiliar clean shaven face. Idly, she wonders if she is actually seeing his true features. The only remnant of his Force sense, as he had told her, seems to be the power to mask his features. She lifts her hand to his cheek, feeling the slight stubble. Her eyes close again as she remembers the time when she had patiently shaved him every day. 

When he had lain unconscious for a half-year. After the Jedi had died. 

When he had become the only one of his kind that they had been able to find.

She shakes her head. “Every time we hear a report of a Jedi, I see your face, love. It’s the same face that you had when you and she made love for the first time,” she says. “Then you fall into a funk for days after we find out it wasn’t true, or when we’re too late.” She stares into those green windows. She sees the dead body of the Jedi—a padawan—hanging from the wall, his body pierced by blaster bolts.

The human male and female hanging next to the Nautolan. A warning to those who would give shelter to a Jedi. 

“I know. I know that you hope to see her every time. So do I. But she would never want you to curl up and die. It’s not in her. Just like I know that it’s not in you.” She kisses him gently. “You can’t keep doing these risky-ass things. Are you hoping to die?”

He doesn’t answer. She sighs, letting him off of the hook. 

Later, as they lay in bed, their bodies entwined, she makes a decision. Maybe a decision that she should’ve made six months ago. Before the day that he had awakened. 

Her vision shifts again. She closes her eyes as she hears a scream. Lassa realizes that it comes from her own mouth. The only sensation she has from behind her eyelids is of cooling temperature. 

She opens her eyes, staring at Ahsoka Tano lying asleep in her arms. Lassa tries to place the time. She realizes that it is one night after discovering Ahsoka alive, sitting in a bar, as if waiting for someone to kill her.

Lassa realizes that she is seeing memories from when her path had veered from certainty—to uncertainty. She loses that thought as her mind is subsumed by the memory. Her memory-self sees Ahsoka’s eyes open. She starts to speak, just as Ahsoka’s hand moves to the disk resting between her breasts. An instant before she moves the cool hand to her breast.

Lassa Rhayme wakes up. She realizes that her hand is in what remains of her shirt.

Where the disk had once hung. She tries to open her left eye, but fails as it remains crusted over with blood.

She lifts her head, manages to roll over, then attempts to complete the motion of rising. She screams as a knife-like pain lances through her side; it increases as she takes a deep shuddering breath. Lassa manages to slump on her back. Several minutes pass before she is able to slide her way up, where she rests against the bulkhead. The pain doesn’t subside as she realizes that it is a bulkhead that is somewhat familiar. 

Having placed many of the useless bastards that had undoubtedly helped her here, into the brig. 

She tries to focus on how she had gotten here. As she does, the pain increases in her head, along with the gauze-like fog in her brain. She reaches up and touches the left side of her head. Dark blood comes away on her fingers. 

_Great_, she thinks. _You can go back twenty years in your noggin, but can’t remember a few hours ago_. She shifts again, bringing another lance of pure fire on her left side, as she feels the shifting of bones in that side. She rests her head back against the metal. The memories come back into a rush. 

The surprise vote-out, the realization that her core officers were not onboard.

Her new position as a maintenance worker, cleaning the ship’s heads. She feels her heart sink at those memories. Of the betrayal by what she considered to be the center of her universe. 

Her family. She curses out loud at the realization that most of her core family had already left the ship. Lassa had only just begun to rebuild it in the last few weeks. 

Now, the rebuild is in shambles. She isn’t even sure that the others—Thyla, Adis, Biggo, Gri—are even still alive. 

Her mind travels back to what had brought her to this bulkhead. A final temptation to escape. To abandon her home—to try and find her family. 

If she had two open eyes, tears might have flowed down her cheeks at the final betrayal. A betrayal by one of those that she had thought was one of her core officers. En Sohlwey, her trusted Master-at-Arms. 

She focuses on Sohlwey’s face and its blank expression as the other crewmembers rain blows on her in the corridor outside of the lifepods. Right after Sohlwey had raised the alarm. 

As she sits in the ruins of her life, she thinks of paths. She sees Ahsoka trying once more to bring her into her embryonic movement. 

“We could use you, Lassa,” Ahsoka said. “I can’t guarantee a lot of money, but I can send what I can to you.”

It had been the last that had convinced her to turn down the offer. She knows that she is a mercenary, but the offer made by this young woman had tugged at her heart. 

Her mind had won out. In spite of the offer, as well as the closeness with Ahsoka and Bryne—plus those other idiots in their tight circle, she had refused. Her family had to eat and survive. 

She now realizes that her family might only be those officers now missing, as well as Bryne and Ahsoka. 

She wonders if she can get back on that path of uncertainty. She knows now that she is on a path of true certainty. 

A short one, if her current circumstance is any indicator.

The door to the brig opens. Two of her lower-ranking crewmembers step in, there blasters out. She stands up, making both of them start. 

Delto Loganer—apparently the new Captain of the Opportunity, steps in. Lassa grins as she sees the reason for the extra muscle in the form of the two massive Whiphids taking up most of her cell. 

The prominent bruises on his jaw and cheek, just visible in his leathery skin. 

“Hello, darling,” he says. “Get a nice nap?”

“Not bad. At least I wasn’t spending it in your bed as you suggested,” Lassa replies quickly.

“You should’ve taken my offer, Lassa. That last desertion attempt has made the rest of the crew want to get rid of you.”

“Well, I was trying to grant them their desire.”

Something that looks like a smile spreads across Loganer’s face. “They were actually thinking of something a little more permanent. They seem to have an overinflated sense of how much of a threat you could be.” The smile widens. “They haven’t seen you at your weakest like I have.”

“Really, Delto?” she asks. “Is it really their fear of me or yours? Most of them have been treated fairly by me. I’ve even treated you fairly—much to my regret,” She shakes her head, then straightens. She takes a deep breath. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’d rather be dead than see what I’ve built be flushed down the ‘fresher by you.”

She sees the two Whiphids raise their blasters and point them at her chest. A quick glance from Loganer and they lower them. 

“As tempting as that offer is, I think I have something a bit more entertaining in mind. Maybe a nice tether around your waist as we shove you out of an airlock. I think seeing you gasp for air and freeze as your lungs explode might be gratifying for some. At least I think that’s the consensus. We’ll wait a bit.”

Lassa grins. _Must not have as much control over your new crew as you say_, she thinks. _Else you would’ve done for me now_. She grins. _Maybe this will work_, she adds to her thoughts.

“I think that we’ll see what we can get out of your useless carcass, Rhayme,” he says, his eyes narrowing. Some of the older crew thinks that your old man might have some scratch to pay for you.”

Lassa feels the grin spreading over her face. She is startled to hear the laughter bubbling up from her chest.

Loganer narrows his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“I shot my father. In the ass. I’d probably shoot him again.”

His teeth clench in anger. “Then I guess you might want to come up with some alternatives.”

She keeps the grin on her face. “Well, there are a couple of Elder families that I’ve been valuable to. They might come up with some credits. The Corellians in particular. Maybe even Alderaan.” She isn’t as sure of the second as of the first. A certain super-secret operative might be able to persuade Bail Organa to come up with a ransom—an operative and her ‘apprentice’ troublemaker, a respectable diner-owner and businesswoman of Aldera.

Lassa is more certain of the Corellian Elder family, for more base reasons. _Depends on your definition of services rendered_, she thinks. She shakes her head of those thoughts, knowing that she needs to keep her head. “They might be a little pissed off at my demise.”

“Not exactly afraid of the Alderaan government, dear,” he says. “They’re a bunch of pacifists.”

“Maybe,” she replies. “But the Corellians ain’t.” She is satisfied to see him blanch at that. 

“You better hope that they value you,” he says, recovering quickly. “I know you seem to have gotten into one Corellian’s little head.” 

She wishes that she could burn that leer off of his face. She doesn’t show the anger. “Maybe. But they have long memories.”

Loganer moves closer. “I think that I could find some buyers for you. Jabba might want to see you in his arena, from what I understand.” He lifts his hand. “Or there are other occupations that you could fill for Jabba on his sail barge. Seeing how much you value your prowess with that Corellian noble.” 

She sees that he realizes his mistake the instant that he touches her lips with his thumb.

As stun bolts from the two minions lance into her nervous system, Lassa finds satisfaction in the leathery taste of the digit, as she feels the bone crunch under her teeth. Almost as much satisfaction at the Weequay’s screams in her fading consciousness, for this and the last time she’d bitten him.


	7. The  Other—The Talker: Delilah Sal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unknowns in both times.

Inasia watches the torches of the raiders on the distant ridge. She turns at the jangle of harnesses and armor. The small host of her Companions prepares to move out. She feels her heart twist at the two riders at the head. One, a tall, but lightly armored woman, her hair flowing behind her, holds a long staff with the banner of the Covenant, a dark green banner with a gold four pointed star wrapped with a silver chain made up of five links. The links are loosely bound by a purple ribbon. 

Her eyes catch Delae’s, who affixes a white streamer below the banner. The Herald-Banner, a request for parley in the Ancient Code. 

Inasia nods at her. Delae grins and blows her a kiss. Inasia turns her attention to the younger woman next to Delae. Terias is busy binding up her bronze curls at the back of her head. Inasia smiles as she drops the binding and curses. Delae shakes her head and places the staff of the banner in its carrier. She pulls a handkerchief and gathers up the errant curls and binds the dark fabric through the mass. She touches Terias’s cheek. Terias smiles softly, then reaches over and kisses the Thinker for a long moment. After they break apart, Terias lifts her helmet and pulls it over the tamed curls. She touches her palm to her breast and bows her head to Inasia. 

Inasia repeats the gesture, then blows her own kiss to her paladin. She hears the tramping of double-timing feet from her left. The two hundred or so infantry draw up to Terias. The cohortarch walks up to the pair and gives a quick bow. Terias nods, then turns to the road, her hand slashing downward in a definitive motion. 

Half of her mounted Companions pull forward behind her. The infantry falls in behind her detachment, while the other half of the Companions take up the rear. She watches until the host disappears towards the fireflies.

She feels a presence walk out behind her. Lenatus the Talker sidles up beside her. For an instant, she thinks this might be the instant that he slips a knife into her ribs from behind. 

He shakes his head. She turns to him and gives him a brief kiss. She rolls her eyes as his tongue slips in. After a brief second, she meets it with hers. 

They break away and stare at each other. Lenatus speaks first. “So, I guess you’re going to fight the Sals, then?”

“Maybe. We’ll try to talk, but if they won’t—” The threat hangs in the air between them. “So why the hell haven’t you gone and done your talking? Or is there not someone that you can fuck your way into their confidence?”

His smile is skull-like in the firelight. “You’re one to talk, girl.”

“Yeah, I can have shitty taste in men, sometimes,” she replies. 

“Apparently so can the Sals,” he says. He looks away. “I’m trying, Inasia. I truly am. But I’m a Sal—a bastard who’s been cast out. I’m willing to go back and talk, but that fact might make it that much harder.”

“It may not be because you’re a bastard, Len,” she replies. “It could have something to do with the fact that you betray people at the drop of a cloth.” She smiles darkly. “Or of a pair of trousers.” The smile fades. “Be that as it may, I need you to be a Link to the Sals.

Lenatus Sal’s dark eyes flash. “Oh, so you acknowledge me, now, Covenant? But not in front of the others?” he snarls. 

“I just said why you’re on the outside. I never know when the moment is going to come that you shove a knife into my guts. You almost did it when you betrayed me to Garm.”

He turns around and looks away. After a moment, he turns back to face her. “I know. Garm forced me to. He had me by the throat,” he finishes. 

“I would think he had you by something else. Something much lower,” she observes dryly.

Lenatus smiles. “Those too,” is all that he says. He reaches up with both hands and places his palms on her cheek. In spite of herself, she moves into the touch. “It didn’t take much for me to finally convince Garm that you were the fulfiller of the Prophecy. That you could unite all of these families and continents. At least on Mainside, but possibly the Brother itself.” He grins. “He finally came around when I was speaking to his little brain.”

She laughs. He joins her for a second. “It also helps that you took his body, using yours just like I did,” he says. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to try so hard,” she replies. “We need you to convince the Sals to stop reaving us. To face the enemy from the North. It will be the last piece.”

He nods. “I’ll do my best,” he says. “Garm may not like the fact that you’ve subverted the Solos to your will. That you basically have his soon-to-be new wife in your pocket. That Danwyn is now the Captain of the Fleet.”

“He’ll get over it. Especially since he might actually be the High King of Aquilonia in more than just name. It may set him up to be the Diktat.” Lenatus’s eyes widen at the use of the traditional name for the All-Highest of the entire Brother.

“I think I need to go, Inasia,” he says. “your Eminence.”

She moves into his embrace, allowing her lips to play over his. They briefly touch each other’s groins, before he breaks away and turns into the night.

She watches his figure recede. As he does, she feels the tingle at the base of her neck. The sign that someone—her prime Link and the one in the fabric of her heart is near.

Very near.

Taliesin Arten reaches his arms around her middle. His breath plays over her skin. 

She can sense his anger, through that mystical, unknown bond. It matches hers. She smiles softly as he brings his under control. He allows her the moment, a moment to let her anger flow. Inasia places her head against his chest as he burrows into her robe. She forces her own calm to take over again. She looks up into his eyes, the gold flecks more prominent with his warmth and a the accompanying crooked grin. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that he’s going to betray us again. I just can’t tell whether he’s doing it because it will benefit him, or Garm.”

“There’s a third option. He’s doing it because he’s breathing,” she replies acerbically.

“A distinct possibility,” Taliesin says. “But, no matter. I’ll go to make sure any betrayal he manages to bring about can be fixed. I’ve some contacts in the Sals. Some close to the old man. Some of them might be getting damned tired of reaving the coast.”

She pulls him closer to him, allowing her nose to play over his throat. She inhales deeply, reveling in the clean scent of wood and smoke. She moves her lips to his ear. “Be careful, my love,” she whispers. “come back to me. Come back to our other loves.”

“Always, darlin’,” he responds. She sees his expression grow mischievous. He makes a show of looking around. “Hmm. Looks like everybody’s left camp.”

Inasia rolls her eyes. “Yeah. They’re going off to do something useful,” she replies. She draws a deep breath as he moves against her. She pulls him tight, then backs up against the broad base of the goatswood tree. She feels his hand intruding into the opening of her shirt. The warmth of his hand rests against her breast.

She moves her hand down to his belt buckle, managing to one-hand it open. She reaches down and within with the other hand, to his hardness. He replaces his hand with his mouth on her breast, as he uses both hands to drop her trousers and the loin cloth to the tops of her boots. She manages to kick her boots off, giggling at his yelp as one of them strikes his shin.

Inasia jumps up, bring her legs around him. She hears a whimpering cry just as she brings him into her warmth with the hand that isn’t around his neck. 

Tal starts to build a rhythm with his thrusts as they both muffle their cries against their shoulders. 

As the light expands in her mind, Inasia Ray incongruously thinks of his name—his given name, and what it means. 

_Between two worlds._

As her orgasm blossoms, as he continues to thrust inside of her, delaying his own finish to trigger another explosion, she realizes that she might be the only other being on this world that knows that his other home might be much further than anyone has ever traveled before. 

Their screams tear through the night as they live.

* * *

Delilah Sal watches as Dupas Thomree, the Imperial Viceroy of Corellia finishes pouring her brandy. She shakes her head, both at the beverage of choice, and the false name for his office. For centuries, the elected ruler of Corellia had been known by an ancient title—the Diktat. The Ruler of Rulers—from the mists of antiquity. Delilah takes the snifter and dutifully places her nose in the mouth, inhaling the aroma. 

She thinks of lost chances as Thomree turns away and deals with a functionary’s request. With more luck, she would’ve been the one wearing the six paired blue and red tiles of an Imperial governor, waiting on a minion’s report. 

Instead, she is the minion, reporting to someone who serves Chandrilan brandy instead of Whyren’s Reserve at a government meeting. She shakes her head. _Maybe it’s for the best_, she thinks. Maybe she can do more in the shadows for Corellia.

Delilah sighs as she listens to Thomree’s arrogant tones prattling on about quotas. She turns her eyes to the window of the darkening skies. Even in only five years or so of the Empire, after several decades of environmental mitigation and recovery, the atmosphere lies thick here in the lower reaches of the capital megalopolis—the only city of this size on Corellia. An intention fostered by the Electors of Corellia—the guarantors of liberty on Corellia. A land use plan from antiquity to keep Corellia from turning into a city-planet like Coruscant. 

She feels her heart twist as she looks up and sees the framework of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer is lifted by its repulsor-tugs for completion in the atmosphere, before being moved to the graving docks that frame the world like a metal necklace. Delilah shakes her head. The ancestors of the last Elector, Ina Raylan-Blackthorn and their work may all be for nought, as the Empire’s insatiable demand for well-made Corellian ships has overridden everything. She smiles as she thinks of the sanctuaries from the development. The Shields that loosely surround the capital city. Places of reserved historical and natural beauty, protected from most of the modern intrusions and the engulfing nature of the city. The ancient seats of the Covenants. She thinks of a small house in Crowneshield. Her own sanctuary in an ancient town, an escape from all of this. 

Her comm dings. She looks at the screen, then grits her teeth. A text from the woman who had raised her—in the loosest sense of the word. Tiion Sal-Solo; the scion-by-marriage of a Elder Family of Corellia—one that had been degraded from that august title. The descendants of seafaring raiders that had fallen on hard-times since its most famous son, Prince-Admiral Jonashe Solo had cemented the Elder status, not just the royal. 

A woman who had made no secret of the fact that the bastard daughter of her brother and Mailyn Blackthorn—another woman connected to the actual remaining Elder Family by marriage— was not wanted. Something that Delilah had been reminded of by Tiion, a reclusive, bitter woman, and her son, Thrackan, almost daily.

She comes back from her thoughts when she hears Thomree address her directly. “Sorry,” she says, “what did you say, your Excellency?”

Thomree paints a smile over his bland, handsome features. He nods. “Something more important on your mind, Adviser?” he asks. 

“Just thinking of the past, Viceroy,” she replies. 

“I think of the past, as well,” he says. “I think of an alternative past, where I didn’t pick you up from the dungheap you were on after CorSec fired you.”

She doesn’t respond immediately. _Yeah, Dupas. I wasn’t the only one on that dungheap, as I recall. Who do you think advised Shyla to pick you as her Pretat just before the end of the Clone War?_ But, she doesn’t give voice to her thoughts. Instead, she nods. “Again, my apologies, Viceroy. I was just thinking of Shyla Merricope.”

_Well, maybe she doesn’t give voice directly,_ she thinks with an inner smile. 

Thomree stares at her. She holds her breath, wondering how he will react. He smiles and says mildly, “Well played, Del. A good segue. What’s your report on our former Diktat?”

“She’s off the grid. She’s apparently on the employment rolls of Whyren’s, as the Chief Operating Officer, as well as on the board of this new Foundation of the Dragon’s.”

“Hmm,” he muses. “A very thin report for someone of your reputation.”

“I’m monitoring it,” she says calmly. “I’m in control.”

“Good to know,” he replies. “I’d hate to think that you’re too busy trying to keep the Covenant in your honey-pot to do anything else in your portfolio.”

“Well, did you find him there last night?” she challenges. 

Thomree merely smiles. “I may be taking you off of that case, my dear,” he says smoothly. “I may point your talents in another direction.”

Her eyes narrow. “Panteer?”

He nods. “I’m not sure that he’s entirely trustworthy. Especially with the wildcard he’s introduced. Your half-brother isn’t exactly stable.” He falls silent. 

“Draq’ Bel Iblis may have had a reason for keeping him hidden, Dupas.” she says carefully. “You may have your disagreements with him, but the Dragon is good at neutralizing threats.”

“Yes. But what he identifies as a threat, may be a benefit to Order.”

_Ahh, the almighty cult of Order_, she thinks cynically. _Order, as long as it’s imposed on others. Ones who are not friends of Palpatine, before he became the Emperor._

For an instant, she thinks of her part in this game. She hadn’t exactly been innocent of feathering her own nest. 

Delilah tunes her superior out again. Instead, she thinks of her Academy classmate, Dani Faygan. Of her selflessness and love for Corellia. In spite of trying to kill each other in the recent past, she is now warmed by that selflessness. Something that has rekindled her love for her homeworld, not just herself.

She chooses her next words carefully. “I think that we should sanction him. His instability can only backfire on us.”

Dupas smiles. “Perhaps. But I prefer to use that instability,” he says. He reaches over pushes a button on the desk.

Her blood runs cold as Rasteen Blackthorn, son of her mother and the former Elector-Presumptive and Covenant, Jamestyn Blackthorn, enters

“Ahh, sister,” he says in his grating, broken voice—with only a hint of his former oiliness. “The familial love is just overwhelming. Perhaps I might give you a chance before I stick the knife in your guts.” A smile plays over his gaunt features. “Maybe I won’t even twist it.”

“You can try, darling brother. It might be hard to twist with a blaster bolt in your guts,” she replies, staring at him defiantly. To reinforce her words, she moves her hand to the small blaster holstered on her right hip. 

Thomree shakes his head and steps between them. “Both of you, stop this. I’ve no time for conflict between supporters and advisors,” he says. 

_Really, bud?_ Delilah thinks to herself. _I thought that you fostered it. Maybe even reveled in it._ She slowly moves her hand away from the blaster. Rasteen watches her with a more-than-slightly demented smirk on his face. 

“Report, Blackthorn,” Thomree says. She sees Rasteen’s eyes flash with anger at Thomree’s imperious directive,

“Dorith and I are still working on that little project. One that will bring Bel Iblis to his knees,” he says. He fall silent at Delilah’s look. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Thomree raise his eyebrows.

“Go on,” the Viceroy says.

“I think that he will overstep; he won’t be able to resist what we’re offering. It’ll play into his so-called do-gooding instincts,” he finishes. 

Delilah moves closer to him. “Why are we still bothering with him? Is there any legitimate Imperial reason to keep pestering a retired old man that we forced from power? Let him do his philanthropy. There’s nothing he’s doing that goes against Imperial Order,” she says, her gaze moving to the Viceroy. 

Rasteen reaches up and turns her chin back to him. She stiffens at the touch, fighting the desire to draw her blaster. In spite of the fact that Thomree’s guards would burn her down in this ancient room. 

“He’s still dangerous. He’s more loyal to Corellia than to the Empire,” Rasteen says with surprising calm. “The cult of Corellia must be broken.”

“Says the man who desired to be the Covenant and the Elector. Two positions sworn to be the protector or guarantor of the people of the Five Brothers,” Delilah observes. 

Rasteen’s anger starts to bubble up. He takes a step even closer. She can feel the closeness at the base of her skull. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, dear,” he spits out. “I’m loyal to the Empire. I thought that an ISB officer would be, as well.”

“I wouldn’t question my motivations, there, convict,” she replies calmly. “I didn’t just get out of an Imperial prison on a technicality.”

“The day is young, Delilah,” Thomree says. “I’ll be the one in this room to decide whose loyalty is stronger.” He looks at Rasteen. “For both of you.”

Rasteen calms, then smiles. “Of course, your Excellency. If we’re successful, there may be repercussions against the Elector-Presumptive. She may not keep her title.”

Delilah holds her breath as Thomree considers this. “I think that Imperial rule might be strong enough that we don’t need symbols. But I don’t think a young girl should be harmed, especially one as prominent as she is. I’d be very careful, Rasteen.”

Rasteen stares at him. Delilah knows that he is calculating whether or not he can disobey around the edges. “I think that I’ll ensure that you’re careful, brother,” she says. She allows a hint of menace to move into her voice. 

Thomree stares at Blackthorn. “Dismissed, Rasteen. I will depend on you to keep this little operation on course, as you’ve said.” He nods at Delilah. “The Advisor will guarantee it. Brief her on the details.

Delilah dips her head to the Viceroy. As Rasteen exits the room, she shifts her shoulder in his path, making hard contact with her half-brother. He stumbles on his bad leg, exiting with little grace from the room.

He curses her as the door closes. 

She waits for several seconds as Dupas stares at her. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Delilah. I’d better not find out that you’re trying to undermine my authority,” he says. 

“Have I ever, Dupas?” she asks. She walks over to him and places the palm of her hand on his chest. She takes a deep breath, as he allows the touch. She reaches up and touches his lips with hers, tentatively at first. After a moment, he responds. He moves his hands to her thick hair. 

She feels his fingers twine. Her eyes widen as they tighten and yank. She gasps as he holds her face away from his. “I seem to remember that you were trying to push me out of this office, in favor of yourself.” His fingers tighten as his face twists in anger. 

Delilah starts to move her hand to her blaster. Before she can even reach the middle of her body, he releases her. His expression returns to its normal placid stare. He gives her a warm smile. “But, you’ve been loyal since then, Delilah. I’d hate to have to send you to the Ending Wall.” He gives her a quick kiss, then moves to the door. As it opens, she sees the Deathtrooper of his personal guard, standing just outside the door. His weapon is pointed at her. “I saw your hand moving towards your weapon. My guard would’ve burned you to ash before you could clear leather, dear.”

Delilah closes her eyes. She sees a young girl with thick reddish-blond hair, being shoved into a room by an angry, bitter, woman. A slightly younger male smirking at her with malice as a protocol droid places a cold hand on her shoulder. 

She tries to shove the memories of her childhood; scenes of Tiion and Thrackan Sal-Solo fade, replaced by the recent memory of Thomree’s threats, as well as the more malevolent ones of Rasteen.

Both of those men’s faces fade, along with the smooth visage of Dorith Panteer, the once and future head of another important industry on Corellia, Blastech. The producer of weapons great and small for most of the galaxy. 

A member of another world’s Elder Family. 

All of them are replaced by the laughing face of Dani Faygan. Who, even after both of them were trying to murder the other, had found it in her heart to reach out to her. To rekindle an all-too-brief friendship from their Academy days. Before they had become competitive—before she had allowed her ambition to overcome the friendship.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She knows that Dani is using her as much as the others. But there is no malice and she knows where she stands with Dani, and by extension her father, Draq’ Bel Iblis, the aforementioned Dragon. Her eyes soften as she sees Dani’s tenderness with her foster-daughter, the young child of her other half-brother, Garen Blackthorn.

Her face darkens as she remembers the implied threat towards Jamelyn, a threat of violence by Rasteen, and a threat towards her position by Thomree. 

Without a further thought, she exits the room. A quick trip to the exit of the ancient seat of Corellian government and she is on the street. She passes by the massive, ugly dome of the prefabbed Imperial Center, resting on one of the few vacant spots of Coronet. She grits her teeth, remember the destruction of low income housing and slums to land the massive station in that now-vacant land. 

She walks past the building/ship, each step growing more confident as she moves away from a path. Her mind grows more sure of what she is doing.

For the next thirty minutes, she is alone with her thoughts as she seemingly meanders though Coronet’s streets. She is a professional; she discreetly looks around her to check for tails. She spots at least one, a Drall who is so discreet about looking at her, that he draws attention to himself trying to avoid her eyes. She grins as a female Drall, one wearing a recognizable tell intercepts him and starts to chat him up. 

Once that she is sure that she if free of any watching eyes, that her signal jammer is active and obscuring any of the myriad of surveillance droids that were yet another gift to this world from the Empire—in addition to an oppressive feel to the air in Coronet and the reintroduction of breath masks for those who have sensitive lungs—she enters a building with an nondescript face. She looks at the large tube that rises from the old structure. With one last look around her, as well as a quick look at her datapad, she touches her thumb to a tiny, unnoticeable flaw in the wood frame. The door opens. She walks down the corridor and enters a room at the end of it. She sits on the comfortable couch and waits.

Delilah is rewarded by the push of a slight weight pinning her to the couch as the room begins to ascend. As always, in spite of her upbringing on this world, she marvels at the technology that allows what is essentially an elevator ride to the stars, or at least to the black of Corellia’s near-orbit.

She looks over to her side and rolls her eyes. There, sitting securely on a side table is a bottle of Whyren’s Reserve, two glasses, and a pitcher of water. She laughs to herself as she remembers her earlier thoughts on Thomree’s drink of choice. She busies herself fixing the whisky (with water back) as the sublift continues its rise. 

On her second whisky, she is still trying to think of what her path might be. She had risen in the Empire’s ranks—not sure of whether it was because of any attraction for the cult of Order, or because she had been rejected by any other path that she had taken. CorSec, politics, business—she had been tested and had been rejected. She bites her lip and considers whether or not she had been rejected or some part of her subconscious had rejected them all in favor of the power of an Imperial functionary. 

She takes a glance down at the surface that she had just left. Something trips her heart as she sees the beauty of her world; a beauty that is starting to once again be obscured by hubris and ambition. This time, it is those qualities personified in one man. 

Sheev Palpatine. A one time politician from a backwater Mid Rim world who had managed to seize the ultimate power. A seizure that had given birth to her own power and ambition, as well as others such as Dupas Thomree. 

She wonders about a regime that will destroy her world—the world, that in spite of herself, she loves in the deepest pit of her heart. A world that has lost its influence in the galaxy as a whole, with one exception—one now retired, but was a home to explorers, gamblers, and engineers. She laughs to herself. _All of those are gamblers,_ she thinks, _in one way or another._

Delilah looks up from her contemplation of the amber mix of grain and Corellia as the elevator slows. She realizes that she is about halfway to her destination.

But her path is already at a crossroads.

A holocomm flickers own, totally fuzzy with two indistinct shapes that clear from the center. For the most part, as one, the taller one remains fuzzy. She grins to herself. _A much taller one_.

She is fairly certain that the figure isn’t female, even through the distortion, thought it wouldn’t matter. Nola Vorserrie is only taller than most women, not this tall.

She focuses on the much shorter figure to the right as his hologram solidifies. A figure that is not human, but with human features—features much different from those others of at least one parent’s species. 

A species generally not known as one with warm feelings towards others. She runs her gaze over Malaky Thittan’s face, with its distinctly human features embedded in a reptilian face, a face that looks with little expression under the blue-green crest.

Until you see the piercing blue-gray eyes. The eyes possess one thing that she has not once seen in other Falleen eyes. 

Curiosity. 

Delilah takes a deep breath. She takes the first step to a new path. “Okay, Malaky, I’m here. I’m not going to take this step because of the fact that you own my mother’s debts to the Hutts. You and your boss, Xizor.”

Thittan smiles, an expression that surprisingly warms her. _This is the intergalactic bugaboo and spice king Malaky?_ she thinks.

“Perhaps, my dear. Your past exploits haven’t exactly given anyone an idea that you might be altruistic,” he says.

“Nor your parentage,” comes a distorted voice from the distorted holo next to Malaky.

She brings her eyes to the column of static. “Well, at least I’m honest. I don’t hide behind distortions and lies, behind a reputation as a galaxy-mover,” she says. She takes another deep breath and steps forward. “Dragon.”

There is silence for a moment. The distortion solidifies into a tall human with craggy features. 

Her eyes widen as she realizes that his blue eyes, even in the washed out representation of the scrambled hologram, possess the same piercing quality as those in the smaller Falleen hologram. 

“Okay, girl. We’ve established how clever you are. Now tell me why I should trust you,” Draq’ Bel Iblis says in his slight mix of accents.

“Because I’ve some information for you. Information that could spell danger for you all. Especially Jamelyn. I’ve already told this to your daughter, at least one part.”

“About how Rasteen seems to remember something about the Covenant, whenever he’s mentioned?” Draq’ asks. He looks offscreen at someone, then nods slightly. “Perhaps I should have a talk with my daughter about who she sleeps with. About the dangers of sociopathy being transmitted sexually.”

“I’m sure you’ll get very far with that, Dragon. She doesn’t strike me as one who doesn’t know her own mind and her own wants and desires.”

Delilah sees something like tenderness on Draq’s face. Something she has seen mirrored on Dani’s face, when she’s not trying to stab or shoot her.

An expression that she unaccountably sees on Malaky’s face, now that she knows to look for it. She files that for future use. 

“Point taken, Delilah,” Draq’ concedes. “But that doesn’t answer really answer my question as to why I should entrust Corellia’s future to the bastard of the Hag. Mailyn Blackthorn left scars on that Elder Family that I married into. The family that I’m sworn to protect.”

Delilah shoves memories away; memories of her childhood—of her tenuous status. “She left some on me as well, Draq’,” she whispers. “Maybe I’m trying to clear her ledgers. Not just because she sold her soul to the Hutts and Black Sun, just so that she could have her revenge on Jamestyn Blackthorn.” She blows out her breath. “I don’t know what you’re getting all high-handed about, Bel Iblis,” she continues with more than a hint of sharpness in her voice. “You’re the one who’s sitting next to someone who is known as one of the worst crimelords in the galaxy. Not to mention one who is ostensibly employed by someone who’s probably the next leader of Black Sun.”

“Thing aren’t always as they appear,” Draq’ replies. He looks over at Malaky and gives a slight smile. “Lots of things can be manufactured.”

“Yes, I now hold those markers, Delilah,” Malaky says. “But unlike the Hutts and Prince Xizor, I won’t hold them over you as a weapon. But I will use them as a guarantor of my father’s world’s safety.”

Delilah digests this. She smiles at them both after a moment. “I’ve discovered what my motivation is, at the heart of this, after all of these years. After seeing Dani and Shyla do what they do for Corellia.” She fixes them with her gaze. “For my world.”

Draq’ nods. “Okay. Now that we’re all humming the planetary anthem, let’s put the cards on the table. What else have you got for us?”

“I think they’re going to try to do something that would wrest Jamelyn’s possession of the Electoral Signet away from her. Something with Rasteen. Dorith Panteer is involved as well.”

“Any idea what?” Draq’ asks. She notices that his body language has shifted once again to a more reptilian pose. 

“I’m still working on it. But I think it might be something to do with trying to defeat you.”

Draq’ is silent. Malaky speaks for both of them.

“I’ve got some feelers out with some others in the shadows. They might be getting more information on this.” He stares at her. “We may have to take direct action.”

She stares at him. “You’d kill Rasteen? That doesn’t exactly gibe with the Dragon’s values. In spite of his reputation.”

“Dragon won’t have anything to do with this,” Malaky replies. “It’ll be Black Sun, or maybe even some of my other ‘acquaintances’.”

Draq’ looks at Malaky. “No. I don’t think we’re there yet. We’ll watch and learn what they’re up to, then see what we need to do.”

Malaky nods at him, his expression distant.

Her last memory of the conversation, as she descends to the surface, is the look on Draq’ Bel Iblis’s face. 

The look of an old man who may have just seen and heard his fill of years of skirting around the edges of integrity. All with one goal. The preservation of his world and his family. 

As she walks back into the street, she suddenly realizes that she is not the only one treading a new path. She thinks of the new year in Corellian history. 

1 AU2. The first year of the Second Age of Uncertain Paths. 

Delilah Sal, like Draq’ Bel Iblis, has just discovered how apt the artificial designation of time truly is.

But unlike the Dragon of Corellia. She is more certain as to the steps she must take on that path.


	8. The  Regent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shyla punches his arm. “It’s more than that, handsome. I know what you and the Links are. Who you are.” She kisses him again. “You’re the ones on the wall. The ones that will restore light.”

Inasia sits on her mount, watching anxiously at the road. Tal’s mount butts her own in the chest, dodging the less-than-playful nip from hers in retaliation. She looks over at the Ranger, who is eating some sort of a tree-fruit. She reaches over and snatches the fruit from him and takes her own bite. He moves to push her from her mount, but she dodges easily, moving under his arm and comes up in his face. 

Her lips touch his; she closes her eyes as the sweetness from the fruit seeps into her senses. A twitch in her middle reminds her of their coupling against the tree. She feels his war-roughened hands move through her cap of auburn hair. He rests his head against hers. She can feel his breathing, easy and slow. The remnants of anxiety for her other two Links, the Third and the Fifth—the Thinker and the Paladin, retreat to the back of her mind.

They both start as they hear the jangling of bridles and tack, growing closer from the road. She moves her palm to the hand-and-a-half wood and nerfskin grip of Anaan, drawing it partially from his scabbard. Taliesin crosses his arms, allowing his features to relax.

She gives a rueful half-grin and closes her eyes, reaching out with the gift that they share. She senses two bright, familiar presences. 

Anaan slips back into his scabbard as the Covenant’s banner rides into view from the woods. Her eyes widen slightly as she sees another banner beside it. She looks at Arten, who remains expressionless, his arms crossed. 

Terias and Delae ride up with their visitor. Inasia raises her eyebrow at Terias, who shakes her head. 

The mystery rider moves up, reaching up and pulling their hood back, revealing the dark features of a woman with sharp gray eyes staring at her from under a mass of dark curls.. 

The newcomer bows her head. “Your Eminence,” she says. 

“Milady Regent,” Inasia replies, returning the dip of the head.

Alexa, Countess Draighean, smiles warmly at Inasia. She nods quickly at Taliesin, her smile fading for a moment. 

“I didn’t know you’d left Thornwell,” Taliesin says quietly.

“I did just last week. I felt like I had to get here before Garm did something stupid,” she says dryly. 

“Well, the day is young,” Delae says. “He seems ready to dip his wick in whatever Solo suits his fancy.”

“I heard about his possible betrothal,” Alexa says. “I guess another wife won’t hurt him,” she says. 

“Probably will tire him out,” Taliesin observes. “I know the feeling,” he says with a look at Inasia, Terias, and Delae. 

His mount chuffs from at least two blows to his rider’s chest from the three women.

Alexa laughs at his expression, looking at all of the women fondly. 

“So how did you wind up with my host?” Inasia. 

“I managed to turn the Sals away. The Old Man listened to reason. Your _Seoladen_ did the rest,” she says, pointing at Delae. Inasia smirks at the blush and uncharacteristic humble look from her Conduit.

“So he might actually listen to reason?” Inasia asks. 

Alexa nods. “I’ve always been able to talk him out of his anger. Comes from having been dandled on his knee as a child at Thornwell.”

“So do you think you can work your magic on Garm?” Terias asks.

Alexa reaches up and touches Terias’s cheek. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve already managed to work a little magic on him,” she says. Terias joins Delae in her blush. 

“It’s alright, girl,” Alexa says. “It’s been awhile since I allowed him in my bed.” She looks at Inasia. “I think it might be time to finally give him that divorce that he’s wanted.”

Inasia looks sharply at that. “Are you sure, milady? The Silver Hills wield a great deal of influence in Aquilonia, I know, but couldn’t a divorce put a dent in that?” she asks. 

Alexa shakes her head. “No. I’ve got a patent from him, upon his taking the crown that he would always heed my advice and counsel. Plus, I have the majority of votes on his Small Council, as well as the Great Council. Thornwell County holds most of the wealth in the Kingdom. It’s why I’m the Regent of the Southern Reaches.”

She pulls out a silk scarf and lifts a flask of water, opening it with one hand, pouring a small amount on the cloth, then wiping her face with it. “I would kill for a hot bath. Do you think the marching camp of the Covenant’s Host might have something like a camp tub?”

Inasia looks at Terias. She gesture to a rider. A whispered word and the rider is off like a shot. “I can do you one better. I have it on good authority that Garm’s not using his tent. He seems to like company in his traveling tub. Probably takes up its own wagon on the march.”

“Good,” Alexa says. “We’ve much to discuss. It’s only a matter of time before we can get my Uncle by marriage to the treating table. We can capitalize on your good work with the Solos and with the Iblis’s. Maybe we can finally end the threat from the Northerners.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last several months, milady,” Inasia says. 

“Since we’re about to share a tub, your Eminence, then perhaps you’ll call me Alexa.”

Inasia nods as they turn their horses. Alexa keeps to her left, and a step behind, in perfect formation. She notices that Alexa looks curiously at Tal. “So since we’re about to share that tub, how’s your Ranger in bed?” she asks casually.

Inasia rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she replies. “He may be a Link, but I don’t have his balls in a bag on my wall.”

“I think I’m tolerable, milady,” he says with a crooked grin. 

“Good. I was asking for my Handmaiden. She seems to have the moon in her eyes when she sees you,” Alexa ripostes. 

Inasia, Terias, and Delae laugh at his dumbfounded expression. Alexa joins them, then reaches over and kisses his cheek. “Perhaps you and your healer can join us in our discussions, along with your other advisors, Eminence.” Her expression grows dark. “I think that we have much to discuss.” She looks at Terias. “Especially you, if you’re going to be our War Duke.”

Her next words hang heavy in the air. “You’ll have to be prepared. Garm could hold back at a crucial moment. I’ve seen it before.”

Inasia’s eyes meet Taliesin’s. All of them are quiet on the ride back.

* * *

Shyla Merricope pushes her way through the door. The first thing that she sees is a slight figure standing against the backdrop of the large bay window. Mon Mothma stares out at the skyline of Hanna City. Idly, having spent the last months looking over her shoulder, she wonders how someone like Mon could allow her back to be to an unlocked door, even on her own homeworld.

Maybe especially on her homeworld, given the information that Shyla has. 

She stops as she sees the other figure sitting in a chair next to the window, facing the door. Nola Vorserrie rises to her full height. She is clad in a flowing, revealing version of business attire. Shyla smiles carefully at her; at the carefully blank expression on the young woman’s face. 

The smile fades as she realizes that Nola’s long fingered right hand rests on the butt of a small blaster, worn openly on her hip. She stares at Nola, who returns her gaze. After a moment, she sits again.

Mon turns around from her contemplation of the city. Her blue eyes examine Shyla. At this particular moment, that gaze carries all the warmth of one of Chandrila’s apex predators examining its prey before it starts to toy with it. 

Right before snapping the food’s neck with its jaws. Oddly, her mind tries to focus on what the predator is called as she tries to figure out what she is going to say. 

“I’m kind of wondering, Shyla, what the hell you’re doing on Chandrila. According to the information I had, you were supposed to be making nice with a Hutt or two on the Smuggler’s Moon,” Nola says. Mothma looks briefly at Nola, but allows the opening riposte.

“Didn’t realize that I had to report my moves to you, girl,” Shyla replies smoothly. “I don’t work for you.”

Nola remains calm, but nods. “Maybe not. But people that I care about got hurt because you changed your goddamned itinerary. I’m sure that the one that you work for might be a bit put out that you’ve suddenly started freelancing.”

“I don’t exactly work for the Dragon, either. I work for Corellia. My interpretation of that job is that I have a certain amount of discretion to use. To improvise.” Shyla steels herself for what she has to say next, knowing how important this young woman is to Dani Faygan. She looks at Mothma. “I’m wondering if the adults in the room could have a conversation, now,” she says. 

Nola rises. After a moment, the fierce, angry expression fades from her sharp features. “Well, this ‘child’ is one of the ones who is supposed to keep Corellia safe. One who may not be a native, but I’ve added it to the list of worlds that I’ve sworn to protect. To give my life for, if I have to. So I think that I might have a bit of say in how someone does certain things. Especially when how she does it might hurt others who are working to protect it.”

Mon Mothma turns her gaze on Nola. After a moment Shyla sees one side of her lips quirk upward. Nola turns away for her own contemplation of the city’s beauty. 

“It may be that you have that leeway, Shyla,” Mothma says quietly. “But you’re on my world, now. You’ve been here for weeks.”

“Yes. Because someone who has a great deal of love for you, realized that there was serious threat to you, especially after what I found out from Geddan the Hutt,” Shyla replies. “A threat that he felt might outweigh whatever I was doing on Nar Shaddaa.”

Shyla sees Mothma’s expression turn very soft, even without the naming of that someone.

Her expression hardens again. “That may be, Shyla. But I’m not sure that Draq’ intended you to harm another of our allies. What if your minion had missed—what if he’d hit something vital on that agent?”

“Maybe if the Covenant had trusted me, his agent wouldn’t have gotten hit,” Shyla says. She instantly knows that her words are a mistake when Nola stands up.

“I’m not seeing why Dani holds you in such high regard. Sounds like you’re compensating for your own failures. Trying to prove something,” she says. 

Shyla feels her anger spike, but calms. “Your problem. It’s been solved. I’ve proven that Malat Ton was in the employ of Jabba the Hutt, rather than Malaky. Jabba had dirt on him from the time of the Republic.”

Nola looks at Mothma, then back at Shyla. Her eyes widen at the expression on Mothma’s face. 

An expression of realization. 

“That explains some of the decisions he made while he was a member of the Assembly,” Mothma says. “Why some trade routes were opened up to a certain group of Corellians.”

Shyla nods. “Yeah. I dealt with them when I was Diktat. I managed to get Geddan the Hutt to keep them out of our ports. I never thought that Chandrila would allow them.” She closes her eyes at one more mark in her ledger.

“So what do we do about Ton? I’m not sure what we can do. He’s about to become the Moff of the Chandrila sector.”

Shyla is silent. “I think that may be taking care of itself. I persuaded Geddan to give Jabba some information that Ton might have been skimming. I’m fairly certain that Ton is going to get a visit from one of Jabba’s pet killers.” Her eyes narrow in thought. “Probably Ming Lardai. She’s strictly used for wet work, rather than retrieval.”

“You know an awful lot about Hutt scumbags for a politician and a so-called legitimate businesswoman,” Nola remarks dryly.

“I know about as much as a pain-in-the-ass ex-Handmaiden, who seems to have had some legal troubles of her own. One that seems to change addresses like some change underwear,” Shyla says.

Nola doesn’t back down. “Only because I had to deal with another goddamned politician. One who seemed to want to use me to get to people worth a helluva lot more than me or you, darling,” she replies. 

Shyla nods. “Dorith Panteer. Got some stuff that might be interesting about him, as well. From his first stint at Blastech.” She reaches out and touches Nola’s arm. For an instant, she’s not sure how Nola will react.

Finally, Nola nods and smiles briefly. Shyla shakes her head. _Draq’ was right. She is hard to get to know. But apparently worth the time and the effort_, she thinks.

“So are we just going to let Jabba’s little psycho kill Ton? I’m not thinking that’s a way to win scumbag friends and influence them,” Nola adds. 

_Okay, maybe even harder to know_, Shyla thinks. “I think that we might be able to turn him, if we put our minds to it,” she says. 

Nola starts to reply when the door opens. 

“That might be a bit hard,” says a new voice.

Shyla turns and looks at the newcomer, another impossibly young woman—one even younger than Nola. She smiles at Nola, then dips her head to Mon Mothma, who smiles warmly. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nola blow the young woman a kiss. 

A pair of brown eyes—eyes that could be called sparkling—appraises Shyla. Shyla notices the very large blaster that takes up most of her right leg, as well as a rank plaque displayed proudly on her chest. Shyla recognizes her, from a party several weeks ago, on Zeltros. Just before her addiction treatments began. 

Shyla is surprised it took her this long to recognize her. _A lot less clothing needed at a Zeltron party._

“What do you mean, Meglann?” Nola asks. 

“Malat Ton withdrew his name from consideration for the Moff’s job. A half-hour later, he was found spattered on a sidewalk in the financial district, underneath an elevated walkway.”

“Did he jump, or was he pushed?” Mothma asks, her eyes focusing on Shyla.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Meglann replies. Her eyes shift to Shyla as well. “Maybe we can ask our Hutt expert here.”

“It’s possible, that he had a bit of remorse. I doubt it, though,” Nola says.

“I do too,” Mothma says. “Looks like you’ve managed to bring a Hutt murderer to my world, Merricope.”

Shyla shrugs. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that Ming Lardai isn’t going to waste time on anything she isn’t getting paid for, though.” She looks out at Hanna City. “Looks like I need to find a new ‘in’ for Jabba’s organization, though.”

Mothma’s pale skin matches her hair. “Is that all you’ve got to say? What happened to you, Shyla? These are not the words or actions of the person I knew as Diktat. The person that Draq’ respected immensely.”

She starts to answer, but Meglann interrupts. “She doesn’t have time to answer that. I’ve got orders to escort you to a Corellian ship.” She looks at Nola, who nods. 

“What if I don’t want to go? Who’s ordered you?”

“You’ve met her before. She’s getting checked out by a medical droid. Seems like she’s still healing from a bullet wound that she got looking for a politician that skipped town. One that everybody tells me was this shit-hot executive back in the day, but seems to can’t even keep her own house in order.”

“You might want to keep your mouth shut on things you don’t understand, dear,” Shyla says. 

“Maybe,” Meglann says. “I’m just a college student. But I know what you went through on Zeltros. When you were ‘recovering’. I also know what you were recovering from changes a person.”

Shyla looks down, tamping her anger down. After a moment, she looks up and nods. Mon Mothma gives her a questioning look. 

Shyla turns and exits the room. As they leave, she stops and says to Meglann. “Thank you for not telling her what it was that I was recovering from, Meglann. I’m grateful.”

Meglann looks at Nola, who smiles back to her. “I think that’s your secret to tell, your Excellency. But you need to talk to Fulcrum. She helped Bryne and Lyndia heal you.” Her expression grows hard. “She’s very dear to me. I owe her a lot. But I’m not her. If she had been killed by whatever demons are driving you, I would’ve probably killed you myself.”

The words are out of place coming from the bright young face. Shyla thinks of another bright face. A crimson one, with laughing purple eyes, from the days as her intern.

One that she will have to explain her actions to, as well.

* * *

Shyla knocks on the door of the cabin. She feels the shift as the_ Jamestyn’s Hope_ makes the jump to lightspeed. The door slides open. She walks into the room, prepared to do battle. A young Togruta lies on the couch as a battered medical droid tends to two small wounds on her left side. 

Shyla nods to her as she recognizes the young woman from that same Zeltron party in which she had met Meglann. She had given her name as Jana Roshti. Shyla remembers how Bryne Covenant had looked at Jana throughout the night, even when the night had gotten as quiet as it did, save for whispers and cries. She shakes those thoughts from her head, remembering only how each of the others in attendance had obviously cared for each other.

Jana looks at her, her expression blank. Shyla forces herself to look at the wound. She is relieved to see that it is healing, that there may not even be any scarring. 

The droid finishes poking at the holes with its probe and then gives a perfunctory noise that sounds suspiciously like a grunt. The droid trundles off. 

Jana continues to look at her, not bothering to replace her top. Her blue eyes reveal nothing. Shyla takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry that you got hurt. I was hoping that I’d be given enough room to do what I needed to do,” she says.

Jana remains quiet. Shyla, who has faced down so many adversaries in various legislative bodies, grows uneasy at the gaze of a woman barely in her twenties.

“Maybe if you’d followed protocol and checked in, sticking to your itinerary, none of this would’ve happened,” she says in the clear voice that Shyla remembers listening to on that Zeltron night. 

“I didn’t have the time to check in. I learned about Malat Ton as a side conversation with one of Geddan’s acquaintances. I had to go off book to get to Chandrila, as well as coordinate the information gathering here and there.”

“You didn’t have a problem coordinating those two dumbasses who attacked me,” Jana says quietly She reaches down and touches her side. “Good thing Gral Kruvure is as good of a shot as he brags.”

Shyla raises and eyebrow “You know them?”

Jana, no, _Fulcrum_ grins. “We’ve tried to kill each other before. We’ve also worked together. I thought that they were still working for me, but I guess that you can’t get good help anymore,” she says with more than a rueful quality.

Shyla stifles her brief laugh. “So what’s my punishment? I have the backing of the Dragon. He knows what I was doing, or least what I was dealing with. Plus, you did survive. I don’t exactly know how or why, but I know that you’re valued by Draq’ and Bail Organa. I kind of figured that you’d be able to survive anything that I could throw at you.”

“Maybe. But I’m not so sure that even the Dragon of Corellia would risk you hurting someone else with your actions.” Her face grows hard—something that Shyla is not sure that fits her youthful, mobile face. “Someone who all of us—Bryne, Nola, and Meglann hold dear.”

Shyla feels a warmth down to her toes. She closes her eyes as the door to the ‘fresher opens. 

Dani Faygan, daughter of that same Dragon, steps out, her hair damp, clad only in a towel. Shyla takes a deep breath, but manages to suppress the slight sob.

Fulcrum rises and walks over to Dani, pulling her into her arms. Shyla sees that they whisper into each other’s ear and lekku, respectively, as the embrace tightens and continues. 

Dani turns to Shyla. Fulcrum picks up her brief top and starts to walk towards the door. Dani stops her. “No, _ta’in’gere_. I want you here. I think that you need to hear this, so that you’ll know.” 

Shyla starts at the Zeltron word. She had only recently learned what it means. _Sister of the heart, if not of blood._

Dani grins at Jana. “You might want to put that top on. The girls there are a bit distracting. I’m sure that Shyla appreciates them as well.”

Fulcrum rolls her eyes as she pulls the top on, wincing as she stretches her wound. “Says the woman who’s standing here in a towel, plus broadcasting with her resonance set on ‘burn’.”

After the other two are suitably covered and their respirations have calmed from the resonance, they all sit on the couch and the chair. 

Dani makes as if to say something, then stops. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“I know now why you told me to make sure that my mother and I told Lexa that no matter what she’d heard, you wanted her to understand what you were doing,” she finally manages.

Shyla nods after a moment. “My daughter will probably hear many things about me before this is all over.” She feels the tears sting, but lets them flow. “Some of them may be true.”

“How much is Draq’ aware of what you were doing?” Dani asks. 

“He knows I was going to the Hutts. I managed to get them to give Corellia a wide berth during my term as Diktat.” She smiles. “I think I did some good, without compromising my integrity. Geddan the Hutt was kind of an outlier, anyway.”

“What about attacking Fulcrum?” Dani asks. 

“He didn’t know anything about that, but he knew about the information about Chandrila and Mon Mothma. He might not have known what I truly had planned.” She smiles softly at something in her mind. “I think he might be too honorable for his own good. He would’ve thought that I shouldn’t have been risking all for someone that means a great deal to him personally.”

Dani nods and smiles. Fulcrum looks at her questioningly, but nods at the expression.

“You were going all in with Geddan,” Fulcrum says. 

“Pretty much. There are some _different_ dynamics going on with him. One that I can’t go into; it’s kind of on a need to know basis.”

Fulcrum narrows her eyes, but relents as Dani gives her another _trust me_ look. Dani shifts her purple eyes to Shyla. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” she asks. 

Shyla nods. “I’ve managed to score a contact with some people on Kessel. They got some information that another party on Corellia that we asked about.”

“Rasteen Blackthorn,” Dani says. Fulcrum starts at this. Shyla watches as Dani squeezes her hand. 

“I managed to track down who got him out. It wasn’t the government. It was an independent contractor who got him released as being valuable to the production effort for the Imperial forces.”

“Panteer,” Dani says. “Does Nola know?”

Fulcrum shakes her head. “I can answer that. She’s trying to stay off of his radar on Corellia.” She looks at Dani. “Do you think that Rasteen remembers?”

Dani is silent. “According to a source that I have, Rasteen seems to be struggling to remember something about Bryne. Something about a meeting during the Clone Wars.” She takes a deep breath. “If it’s the one that I’m thinking of, it could be problematic for his Eminence.”

Shyla nods. “I know. Which is why I may ditch my meeting with Draq’ for the time being. I’m going to see what Rasteen knows. I’ll meet with Delilah Sal.”

“Draq’ may not like that. But he hasn’t been seen much or heard from during this whole thing,” Dani says. 

“Yeah. But if there is a threat to Covenant, or even as I’ve heard, to the Elector-Presumptive, he’ll want me doing what I can. It’s my role, now. To do things that gives everyone cover.”

They fall silent. Shyla’s thoughts are on what she may have to do.

_For Corellia._

She tries to look away from the tears in Dani’s eyes.

* * *

Once again, Shyla finds herself before a door; this one on her beloved homeworld. She wonders if, after the next day or so, if she will ever leave Corellia, or if she will ever see it again. 

This meeting will determine which path she will take. Both of them uncertain, but possibly the only ones open to her. She places her head agains the door. She thinks of her failures—of her duty and of her flesh. She feels a slight tremor in her left hand.

Shyla pushes away from the door with other hand. She looks down at the offending appendage. She hadn’t felt any of the tremors since her healing on Zeltros. 

The hand is steady. She closes it into a fist. She wonders if thinking about her failures—such as her failure to protect Corellia from the Empire. Her failure to die at the Ending Wall in defense of her world, instead taking her retirement stipend and luxury apartment. Slinking away with her tail between her legs. 

She raises her hand to the door. Her hand closes into a fist, then knocks twice. The door slides open and she limps in, her frozen leg a reminder of the weakness of the flesh. The potent spice that she had found herself enthralled to, after two years of a purposeless existence.

She closes her eyes, then quickly opening them, shoving the memories of floating in the clouds of the drug away. She stares at the two people within. One that she hadn’t expected. 

Delilah Sal smiles at her, then beckons her in. It is the person sitting against the wall that she stares at.

“Ahh, if it isn’t our has-been Diktat,” Rasteen Blackthorn says. “How was your time on the Hutt’s world? Did you come away with a new affinity for slime?”

She sees a spark of anger in Delilah’s dark eyes, eyes identical to that of the remnant of a man sitting in the chair. She smiles at the anger of another of her former interns. One that she had taken that step with, the step that she hadn’t taken with Dani Faygan.

At least not until Dani had graduated from both university and the CorSec academy.

She smiles her regret. A regret that Delilah had only absorbed the devious lessons of a politician, rather than what she hoped Dani had learned from her. 

Service to something larger than herself. _For Corellia._

An idea that she hoped had returned to her. She smiles at Rasteen. “I don’t seem to be the only washed-up has-been here. At least I got to be something, rather than living on the memories of what I could’ve been,” she replies coolly. 

His eyes narrow. “I am the true Covenant. Not that upstart that the Dragon found with some Blackthorn blood in him,” he sneers. 

She takes a deep breath. In her mind, she suddenly sees a path, a possible path, diverging even from the one that she and Draq’ had chosen. 

She had already chosen a path away from that one, with her actions on Chandrila. One that there was still a chance of returning from. 

She forges ahead, as she sees Rasteen’s face twisting. Twisting in anger at his own mention of the current Covenant. He rises and advances on her, his own body as twisted as her leg is. 

“I’m thinking that you’re not even fit to carry his boots, Rasteen,” she says. She feels the devious smile come over her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Delilah shake her head, mouthing the word _no._ Shyla ignores her. 

She turns her attention back to Rasteen, as she sees a different expression on his face. One that Delilah had spoken of to Dani. Another look triggered by the mention of Bryne. A look as if struggling to remember something. 

She remembered clearly what he struggles with. A meeting that she had been a part of, in the background, as the Diktat and an ex-officio member of the Electoral Council. She smiles at the memory of the young Jedi—one so different from more recent thoughts. At the time, she had an impression of a great deal of hair and beard, his features indistinct. 

There was less hair now. She sees the path coming clearer to her, opening up possibilities. She feels Delilah coming closer to her as Rasteen’s anger, then his confusion grows. 

The path grows more certain, if at least for a moment. She pushes forward. 

“Bryne Covenant is the man that you only wished you were, Rasteen. The best part of Jamestyn Blackthorn in you dribbled down the Hag’s legs after she entrapped him,” she says. 

She gauges the distance; of what she has to do as the anger erupts from Rasteen. “How would you know? You were too busy being on your knees for the Dragon. Everyone knows that he was your puppet-master!” he screams.

Shyla laughs; sees her moment. “Really? That’s what you’ve got, to try to throw me off balance? You’re the only one that might think that. That’s probably the one thing that neither the Dragon or I have ever done. He has too much honor for that,” she finishes. “Something you’d never understand.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s why his nephew is the Covenant and you aren’t. He thinks of something larger than himself. Something the Hag never could. “Only your younger brother could in the end.” She waits for the connections to be made in his Kessel-addled mind.

It doesn’t take long.

A switch flips, shifting his features to one of realization. “He’s a Je—”

She moves. She seizes the blaster from Delilah’s waist. A quick movement and the thumb-break is open on the holster. She knows that there is no safety on, as Dani had told her one night as they rested in each other’s arms, discussing things as mundane as how cops the galaxy over thought. Just before they had gotten out of bed the next morning and had gone to the blaster range for a different lesson.

One part of her mind knows it is impossible, but she can almost track the red blaster bolt as it intersects with Rasteen’s chest. She hears nothing, not even Delilah’s shout.

Until she does. 

She turns around as Delilah grabs her arm. She holds the blaster loosely as Delilah struggles. 

“Come on Shyla, you have to make this look good for the security cameras,” she hears in a whisper. 

“What?” she manages. It dawns on her that Delilah is not actually trying to take the blaster away. 

“You dumbass,” Delilah whispers. “I was supposed to be the one that shot him.”

She stares at the ISB agent, who is still performing a one-sided struggle to take the blaster, from someone who isn’t struggling to keep it.

She looks over at Rasteen’s corpse. She realizes that a blaster rests on the floor next to him, near his hand. He’d never had a chance to actually draw it, but was moving towards it.

The word that she had cut off would’ve been more dangerous for Corellia than the blaster.

She realizes that Delilah has twisted her hand with the blaster in it towards her own side, her finger moving towards the trigger. Shyla begins to struggle for real. “No!” she screams.

“You have to, Shy,” Delilah says. “Otherwise, I might be dead.”

Delilah manages to touch the trigger. There is a burst of light and noise as the blaster fires into her side. Delilah screams, then begins a series of whimpers as she collapses to the floor. Shyla follows her, dropping the blaster. 

“What the hell, Delilah?” she asks as she hugs the ISB officer to her. She can feel the tears flowing from her eyes; sees them drop onto Delilah’s white tunic.

“Had to,” Delilah manages to gasp out. “It was supposed to be me. The second part’s coming.” She cries out again. “Oh, this hurts so bad,” she says in a voice not unlike that of a small child. Her dark eyes close. 

Shyla can see that she is still breathing. She hears a noise behind her. She turns and sees Dorith Panteer, former member of the Alderaan Council of Graces and a businessman on this world. 

Possible candidate for the father of a teenaged girl with Shyla’s eyes, now living on Zeltros. 

He looks at her with a blank expression. His eyes track over to Rasteen’s body, then the ISB agent. 

Panteer looks at her, then reaches behind him and pulls out a small blaster, pointing it at her head. She closes her eyes, waiting for the blast. 

“Open your eyes, Shyla,” Panteer says. There is something about his voice—something different from the Alderaani accent she remembered. She complies. 

He pulls the trigger.

Shyla braces for the impact, but nothing happens. She stares at him still holding the blaster. A smile quirks his lips—but one that she had never seen from him from fifteen years before. 

Her eyes widen as he surreptitiously touches a wrist comm with the hand holding the blaster. “You got that, Phygus? Good. Kill the feed and start your hoodoo.”

He clutches the blaster to his head more tightly as he lets out a scream of his own. He drops to his knees, both hands now clutching his head, as well as covering his face. 

Shyla, in spite of her history with him moves to his side. As she gets closer, she sees that he seems to be fading in and out in her vision. She touches his hair, as it changes color, to an iron gray hue from the coal-black. 

She lifts his face from his hands. Vivid blue eyes, in a darker-hued face, have shifted to a pair of warmer green eyes. The thin, idiotic mustache—almost a stereotype for a holodrama villain has morphed into a red, brown, and gold bit of hair around the lips and chin. The skin tone has even lightened, if only slightly.

The green eyes, with bits of gold in them, are filled with pain. 

“Bryne,” she whispers. “What the hell?”

_Seems to be the question_, a part of her idly thinks.

“I haven’t done that much in the last few years,” he says. “I don’t think I ever want to do it again, after that.” He smiles up at her. “You’re about to be dead, love. At least to millions of holonews viewers.”

“How did you know?” she asks. She reaches down and kisses him on the forehead. After a thought, she moves her lips to his, holding them against hers in a lasting kiss. 

“We’ve managed to slice into your datapad, after you went off of the grid. Draq’ figured you were going to do something self-sacrificing, after your healing. He knew how powerful an emotion remorse is for someone with a conscience.” He looks down. Her heart twists as she sees the raw emotion, through the pain of whatever-it-was. “I never want to watch what was basically a suicide note again, Shyla.”

She closes her eyes. “It had to be done. I was in that meeting, so many years ago, where Rasteen, Garen, and the Hag were there with you and your master. I’m just wondering how the hell he didn’t remember,” she says. 

He gives that crooked grin—really the only thing she remembers about his face from that much-younger version. “When he was arrested, after the Hag died and I got taken by some other relations, he was subjected to a bit of a suggestion. Not just for my sake, but for another’s.”

“Fulcrum,” she whispers, almost low enough not to be heard. 

He gives a brief nod, almost brief enough not to be seen. “We were trying to figure out contingencies when we saw your note, right after you said you were going to meet with Delilah. We knew her schedule as well.” He looks over at Delilah, making sure she is still breathing. “Draq’ thought you were going to kill her as well.” His eyes grow just a bit thunderous. “Apparently that old bastard has been working her. Something we’re going to have words about.”

For the first time, Shyla laughs briefly. “He isn’t called the Dragon for nothing. Something I’ve been putting up with for a quarter-century.”

He rolls his eyes. “I guess I’ll be stepping out on the town with her more.” She laughs again at the rueful expression. He pulls her to her feet. “Come on, Madame Diktat. We’ve got an escape route. Fulcrum’s going to get you offworld. Back to your Hutt friend, Geddan. I’m going to work on some backup for you.”

“So what about Dorith? If he’s got an alibi—”

He smiles, a slight hint of mischief. “He’s true to his nature. He’s with a young woman that he’s been visiting regularly. One who’ll suddenly be ‘unavailable for comment’.” His smile fades. “The Imps won’t do anything, but this is being released on the Holonet, plus your performance as a corpse, will probably be enough to get him off of Corellia. He’ll probably get promoted,” he finishes with only a hint of sadness at unfinished business.

She nods, knowing where the young woman had come from. A type of orphanage that trained its residents—those who had the aptitude, as well as the desire, to serve their world. 

In whatever occupation their world needed, to preserve it. She looks down as she thinks of things that are necessary in wartime.

He sees her look. “I know. It’s necessary, but that doesn’t make it any easier for those who care about these things.”

“I can’t say much. I’m pretty much a murderer and a drug addict.”

He kisses her again. “You may have saved my life, as well as my family’s.” He looks over at Rasteen’s body, with something like regret. “He made his choice, long ago. He helped kill my other brother, as well as being a party to my kidnapping and attempted murder.” He turns his gaze back to her, then gives her that slow, easy grin. “Come on, your Excellency. It’s time for a new life. Time to find your path.”

She looks curiously at him. “An uncertain path?” she asks with a slight smile.

“Maybe our paths have always been uncertain.” He grins. “Maybe that declaration and the Affirmation of the Links of the Chain, that supposedly will bring us back to certainty, is just a fancy excuse for several of us to get laid on a regular basis.”

Shyla punches his arm. “It’s more than that, handsome. I know what you and the Links are. Who you are.” She kisses him again. “You’re the ones on the wall. The ones that will restore light.”

After a moment. He nods. “Somebody will have to find you a fancy codename, now. But first, I think you need to say goodbye to Dani.”

“So am I a Link?” she asks. 

“Not exactly. There’s one slot that several people can fill—those on the outside, but still part of it. But there are also those connections that we each have, outside of the Affirmation,” he says. He looks down. “At least some of us.”

She nods. “I’m good with that. Never been one to be a fan of marriage and whatnot,” she says. “I’m ready, your Eminence,” she says. She feels herself stand straight.

Later, as she watches her world recede, she wonders if she’ll ever see this world of gamblers, engineers, and explorers, again.

She knows what it means to her. Even though she is no longer the Diktat, that she has been cast aside by her world, she will continue to follow the oath she had taken, so many years ago.

_For Corellia._


	9. The Covenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, a triumph, with a title refused. The beginning of a certain path.
> 
> In the present, they don’t know where the path leads, but they know who will walk it with them.

**The Past: Whyren’s Deep**

The armies clash. 

The land of Inasia’s birth, specifically the area of its greatest resource, the wide, deep river, is surrounded by clashing and shouting men and women. The fighting is thickest at the river’s south bank—the place where the clear and pure mountain streams that feed the Ray’s greatest product enters the wider river system in the foothills. 

The nearest daughter of this land stares at the fighting around the stream, watching as yet another body falls on the shore. An strange part of her mind, as she blocks an overhead swing, is that she hopes the whisky will remain pure. She curses herself at that thought, as soldiers die around her. A daughter of the Ray would think that, as that amber purity is the lifeblood of the people who call the mountains and the hollows home. 

Inasia drops to her knees as her Suman opponent swings his glaive over her head. She is about to thrust her sword upwards when Delae casually thrusts the point of an arrow between his legs, through a very tiny space in his armor. 

Both of them are painted in the rush of blood that ensues; the Suman berserker tries to continue to swing, but his body doesn’t cooperate. Inasia rises and reinforces what his body is telling itself, by powering Anaan through the thick muscles of his neck. 

She turns and looks at Delae. Both are unsteady on their feet. Inasia bleeds from a dozen small wounds, only one, a sword thrust on her side, of any seriousness. 

At least by itself. She feels herself weakening. Delae appears to be in worse shape. She reaches up with a shaky left hand and snaps the small-quarrel off where it entered the armor of her chest.

Inasia starts as the double-vision that seems to be a part of her gift flows through her mind. She sees the champion of the Suman running towards her, his spear raised high for a thrust. She tries to move, but her sword arm refuses to work. As if in slow motion, she sees Delae move in front of her, her mouth forming words, but no sound comes out. Out of the corner of her eye, Inasia can see Terias slashing her way through multiple opponents to get to her. 

Danwyn has just gone down under a sword thrust; she can’t tell if she lives as her Daughter-Captains rush to her aid. 

Inasia closes her eyes. _So this is how the dream ends,_ she thinks. She steels herself, preparing for the pain and then the nothingness. She is sure that the champion will take her head after—

_A bit dark, aren’t you, sweetie?_ she hears in her mind, from a distinctive warm voice. She opens her eyes. She sees Garm watching her, making no move, waiting to see what happens. Inasia hears the voice in her mind again. _This isn’t how your path ends, my Covenant._

She manages to raise up, to face the spear. A blur of a figure interposes itself between her and the threat. She hears him cry out as the spear glances off of his side.

Time stops as he pulls something that looks like a broken sword. She is amazed that she can see his thumb move towards a small stud on the hilt. 

There is a burst of red light from the hilt. The noise of battle stills as long shaft of light appears, accompanied by two smaller shafts, forming a crossguard for the light-blade. She notices that the hilt is a bright gold. 

In the space of the breath, the Suman champion is cleaved in two. The light blade disappears, as if it had been a dream.

Taliesin Arten turns away to the stunned silence and gives her that crooked grin, before falling to his knees. She sees the other Links move towards her as Suman warriors drop their weapons. 

Delae, of course, has the last word. “You waited until now to bring that out?” she asks.

His grin widens as he takes her arm to support him. “Well, Madame No, you know me. Full of surprises.”

“Where’d you find that?” Inasia asks. 

“I don’t rightly know,” he replies. “I’ve always had it. My Finder says it was found with me.”

She nods as Terias and Danwyn walk up to them. Terias supports the healer. “You might have a problem, Inasia,” she says. She jerks her head behind her.

Garm stares at her, Lenatus the Talker at his side. She can hear the murmuring around her from their host. 

Until it becomes a cry. A cry of her name, in acclimation. 

She makes to walk to Garm. Taliesin looks at her. Something shows in his green eyes. Something that has been there, as well as something new.

Love and pride.

She smiles, then raises her palm, with one look silencing the host. She looks at Taliesin, then shakes off Delae. She begins to deliberately walk over to where Garm stands. 

He stares at her expectantly, as if expecting a blow. She looks down at Anaan, her companion of so many years. She stares at him, then Lenatus, After a moment, Lenatus nods. Countess Alexa walks up, her gray eyes unreadable.

In one swift movement, she kneels on one knee, every move igniting a new ache. She plunges Anaan into the ground, then bows her head. She opens her mouth.

“My King,” she says. There is stunned silence, then others of her host copies her movement.

_I’m a protector, not a ruler._

Taliesin moves over to her and kneels next to her. After a moment, Alexa Draighean turns and dips her head to Garm—her only concession. She smiles at Inasia, very carefully. Her smile grows more soft and warm as Inasia sways. 

Four sets of hands help steady her, as they steady themselves with their own wounds. She sees Danwyn, supported by Terias, carefully cut the edges of the large spear that protrudes from Arten’s side, at an angle from where it had entered, scraping along his ribs and breaking.

Her Links settle in next to her. Her swordmates in war—her family in all else.

* * *

Meglann can feel Bryne watching her as she brings the _Draq’stone_ smoothly out of hyperspace. She grins as she feels his emotions amplified by her other mentor’s gift standing next to him, watchful. Her grin widens as she feels the raw pride projected from both of them.

“Coming home, huh, Port?” he asks quietly. Dani places her warm hand on Meglann’s shoulder. 

Meglann grins through her concentration. “Yep. In more ways than one, your Eminence,” she replies. All three of them shift their attention to the small green world filling the port of the old _Consular_-class. The first ship that she had ever flown. 

“How’s the diner coming?” he asks. 

She brightens from her reverie as she moves to arc the ship towards Aldera, the capital. “Going well. Should have a grand opening while we’re here, even though I probably won’t make it. Bail’s ex-cook has done a great job.” She looks down, memories rushing over her face. Bryne joins his hand on her shoulder with Dani.

“It’s okay, ‘glann,” Dani says. “Her Diner is in good hands.” She grins. “Even though it should be ‘His Diner’, maybe.” 

Meglann laughs. “That’s been the name since I worked there. The previous owner was a ‘he’, as well.” She closes her eyes as the face of a grumpy Nikto line cook intrudes into her memory. The actual former owner of the diner; the one who had sold it to her, then never left. His spirit will probably still haunt the place.

Both hands tighten slightly on her shoulder. “I don’t know how much time you’re going to have here. We need you to get onto helping Thyla, Adis, and Gri find Lassa,” Bryne says.

Meglann nods. “I know. I’m going to drop you, Dani, and Nola off, see my uncle and the diner, then raise ship.” She catches Dani’s grin to Bryne at the spacer’s term. One that she now says with much less self-consciousness.

“Looks like you’ve got it under control. You’ll have some passengers with you, once they get cleared by Bail’s cops and the Chandrilans,” he remarks.

“Nope,” Meglann replies. “Nobody’s a passenger on my boat,” she says with a grin and a poke at Dani. 

Dani rolls her eyes. “Just remember, sweet-cheeks. I’m still the owner and Captain of record. You’re just a stand-in.” She reaches down and kisses Meglann, to lessen whatever perceived sting might be detected in her words.

“Oh, yeah, Captain,” Meglann replies. “I’ll take care of her.” She lets a devilish smile quirk one side of her lips, looking down at the console. She brings a hint of perplexity into her brown eyes. “What’re all those shiny dials and buttons?” She yelps as Dani reaches down and runs her tongue on a certain spot behind the delicate ear. A spot well known to all of them.

As their laughter subsides, Meglann says, “I’m putting them to work. Kruvure sounds like he’s a decent engineer. He can keep the trashcans straight on maintenance and stuff. Lassa’s daddy might be a problem. I can’t figure out what the hell it is that he does.”

“Strategery,” Dani and Bryne say as one. “Although, he might look good with a push broom,” Bryne adds. 

They fall silent she falls back into reverie, as her skill allows her to complete the flying and landing cycle almost automatically. _Four months, I’ve been doing this. Only four months_, she reminds herself. 

She wonders how much of this skill is her own dormant aptitude, or the genetics from her pilot parents, now known to her.

“A little of both,” Bryne whispers. Meglann starts as she realizes she might’ve spoken the thought aloud. Dani grins at them both. 

“So how’re you doing, ‘glann?” Bryne asks. 

“I’m okay, Bryne. Trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do,” she replies.

“With Lassa, or in general?” Dani asks. 

Meglann runs through her possible answers, trying to figure out which one doesn’t demonstrate her irredeemable shininess, as Drop would say.

Bryne saves her the trouble. “Answer honestly, Ina,” he says, using her codename. She reaches down and fingers the charm under her shirt, then touches the rank plaque on the garment. She sees Bryne and Dani look at one another.

“A little of both,” she echoes his earlier statement. “I’m getting more certain of where I’m going, that I’m doing the right thing, rather than sitting on the Mother trying to master the nuances of gravy and maybe plowing through the University students that come through the diner.”

Bryne raises his eyebrow at that note. Dani gives a look somewhat like pride. “But I’m still worried about what Ahsoka thinks about all of this. She’s dropped the whole ‘stay at home and be my normal’ stuff, but I know she worries,” Meglann finishes. 

Bryne smiles. “We all worry, Ensign,” he says. “We all worry about each other. You’re new, but I think that you’ve proven that you’re skilled and you wash behind your ears and all that.” He looks down. “I wish to hell that all of us could find something else to do. Although I don’t know what Ahsoka and I could actually do.” 

Meglann stands up and pulls him to her. She gives him a deep kiss. “I can think of a few things y’all can do good,” she says. He yelps as she bites his earlobe. “Not just that, Dani,” she says, turning to her.

“We’re all proud of you and what you’ve accomplished, love,” Dani says. She reaches up and touches both of their cheeks. “One thing that I personally wish you wouldn’t try to emulate from these two clowns is how much time they spend in a medcenter or bacta tank. With the exception of the capture of those two idiots, you’ve managed to wind up dinged.” Meglann looks away, sheepishly.

“So about Lassa. I’ll pick up Thyla and the others, then head to Bothuwui Proper. One of Draq’s contacts has some information on the guy that took Lassa.” She looks thoughtful, then continues, “Got two or three avenues to look at. Fulcrum has a contact there, as well.”

Bryne nods. “Selda. Also Cyn is there. Don’t know if she’s a Handmaiden right now, but she’s got some contacts.” His eyes narrow. “And the third?”

“Hondo,” is all Meglann says.

“Marvelous,” Dani says. “I’d probably depend on his information the least.”

“You know it, sweetie,” Meglann replies. The hatch opens behind them. 

Boge M’Faru and Murta Locke step in, followed by another Link. Murta looks thunderously at Meglann standing above the pilot’s chair, wrapped in the other two’s arms.

Meglann steps out of his way as Murta slides in, muttering something incomprehensible in his thick beard.

Nola Vorserrie steps into the embrace, laughing at Murta’s expression. She pulls her face to the other three. 

“Bail’s signaling. He’ll meet us when we land. The Queen will want to see us, but is otherwise engaged right now.”

Meglann nods. “Give his Highness and her Majesty my regrets. I’m on a timetable,” she says. She looks down. “If I’m not already too late.”

Their faces all reflect the sadness. Meglann paints a warm smile on her face again, as she kisses them each in turn.

Later, as she sits next to Murta, she thinks of her new family. She thinks of the the paths that they are on, all different.

All together, though.

* * *

Nola watches as the _Draq’stone_ lifts into the bright, sunlit skies. She notices that Bryne is watching her, while Dani keeps her eyes on her ship, climbing into the heavens. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Dani’s full lips curl into a slight smile. 

She feels a hand on hers. Bryne pulls her right hand into a loose grip held against their legs. His eyes are warm as she looks away, self-consciously. Bryne pulls her away, pulling her back into the small apartment. As they walk in, she looks around the comfortable room. A small sitting area before a fireplace, with the sleeping space in one corner and a kitchen space near the front door. She thinks of her growth while living in this room. 

They both sit on the comfortable couch.

“How’re you doing, No-no?” he asks, before she can go too deep in her thoughts of the past. 

“Not bad, Hero,” she says quickly. “Got some good things going on.” She squeezes her hand tightly around his. 

“Yeah? You don’t exactly look like good things coming down the road. What’s on your mind?”

She grins, shaking her head. “How the hell do you know what’s going on with me? You all seem to know everything in my mind. I have to deal with ex-Jedi and empaths. Not to mention my cook.”

“Not always—you ain’t exactly an open book, No-no,” he replies. “But all of those you mentioned, although it’s a reach to conflate your cook with your bartender, care about you,” he continues. He stops, looks down, “You seem to know about what all of us need, as well. Especially Ahsoka. Even though she’s the last one to admit it.”

It is her turn to look away. He doesn’t let her, touching two fingers to her jaw and turning her back to his gaze. “You know she’s forgiven you, right?” 

“Yep,” she says simply. “She told me that awhile back, when I came to get her on Shili. Just before you both decided to lock up your genitals in that stupid-ass bet.”

He laughs. “Don’t remind me. I’m surprised you didn’t throw yourself at me.”

“I was next, if Meglann failed. Apparently Dav made it through, too,” she says. She reaches over and kisses him. When they break away, she rests her forehead on his. “Yeah, she forgave me.”

He closes his eyes, giving her the time that she needs. At least in the beginning.

“You know, you can forgive yourself, Nola,” he says. “It’s probably just as important to Ahsoka and me.”

She pulls her forehead from his, but places her other hand on his. She takes a deep breath, releases it. He beats her to it.

“Your dead will let you forgive yourself, love,” he says. “They wouldn’t want you to curl up and die for them. Your Queen. Your fellow Handmaidens.” He looks down at their linked hands. He shakes his head. “I know I’m not a great example for this. I’ve done some pretty damned self-destructive things while grieving. I’m still learning how to deal. But I haven’t pushed everyone away when they get too close.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t mention another loss.

She starts to open her mouth, but closes it. She steels herself to listen. “I saw you with Boba,” he says, “You made a connection with him, when nobody else would even try.” He smirks. “I don’t think you’ll be picking out armor patterns with him or anything, but I saw him respond to you like I’ve never seen.”

“Maybe we’re both just broken,” she says. 

He stills her lips with another brief kiss. “Him maybe, but not you, at least anymore than the rest of us. I see how you care, about and for us. You hide it behind your bullshit, but I see how things eat at you, when you think I ain’t looking.” He pulls her head against his shoulder.

She rests against him. “I’m not sure, Bryne. One thing that I do know is that I’m not sure of what we’re doing is going to be worth it in the end.”

He shifts away and looks at her, his eyes unreadable. “Is this because of Rae Sloane?” he asks. 

She feels her heart twist at his words. She looks down. “Maybe,” she whispers. 

“You know I held her life in my hands, once, right?” he asks. 

Nola stares at him. 

“It was before I knew Ahsoka was alive,” he remarks. “I went back for her, at the risk of getting blown up.” He looks up at Dani, still standing on the balcony. “All because of what her sister meant to me.”

Nola waits silently. “I’ve often wondered whether I did the right thing, knowing what she is a part of. I didn’t know if I’d regret it,” he finishes. 

“I know. I met her right after I came to Alderaan. She was funny and passionate about doing what she thought was the right thing.” She takes a deep breath; curses the shuddering in the draw. “We had a couple of moments. We decided to keep in touch. I know that her superiors told her to work me because of my connection to Bail. I hadn’t even started to work for him and the Queen yet. I know that Bail and Breha would’ve like me to work her, but they never pushed. I think they saw the friendship being important to me after Apailana died.”

He brings her knuckles up to his lips, letting them rest there as she gathers herself.

“We kept up communications, all the while avoiding what we both did. This last time, though, I saw how she seemed to be dedicated to order.”

Bryne drops her hand. “Jana and she came from nothing on Ganthel,” he says. “Jana practically raised her, when her parents were working in whatever factory job they could find—or whenever they were running for local office. After Jana escaped to the Academy, Rae was old enough to be by herself. It wasn’t the best environment.” He falls silent. “You ever wonder why your friend the Conyl-Regent’s given name is the same as their family name?”

“I assumed it was a common name,” she says. 

He shakes his head. “No. An ancestor of hers served the Conlyns. Not as a servant, but as an employee. She was an orphan, who they identified and took from the streets. They raised her with their child, training her to protect and defend. At her age of majority, they gave her a choice. A choice to serve as the heir’s Guardian, or to be given a comfortable lump sum or a job in security. She took the service—the employment. She served as the heir’s protector for a term of two decades. I say service, but she was paid and wanted for nothing. Her term was shortened because she saved the Conyl and his daughter, at great risk to her own life. She was able to retire with full benefits after only five years. As an honor for her service, at least one in every generation of the Conlyns is named for her family name.”

Nola remains silent for a moment. “ A guardian like Behntu,” she says, thinking of the huge pale-skinned shadow of SIoane Conlyn. A man both good-humored and utterly ferocious as the situation called for. “I never knew. Do the Conyl still recognize her family?”

“Only as honored retainers from hundreds of years ago. They call each other cousins, but they haven’t maintained the connections. At least until Jana came along as a Republic hero. She actually delivered the news to our Meglann’s uncle and Meglann about the death of her mother.”

She sees his eyes tear slightly. He wipes them away. “Jana taught me so much. She was passionate and caring,” he says. “I don’t know what she would think of what Rae does. Of who she serves now.”

Nola smiles. “I saw some of that compassion. But I think she’s in deep.” She looks down at their hands again. “She did let me go, without arresting me on Nar Shaddaa.

“I think she’s lost sight of the people,” she finishes. She fights back tears at the probable lost connection. 

They both look up at the warmth that assails them as Dani walks back in, a smile on her face. She nods at their expressions, then comes over and sits on the other side of Covenant. 

All of them are quiet with their thoughts of navigating their future. Of losses, as well as gains.

* * *

Dani looks over at Nola, resting against Bryne’s chest, a slight snore sounding with her regular breathing. Bryne catches her eye, smiling slightly.

Flori, one of Breha’s Handmaidens and a fellow Zeltron had entered a half hour ago and given them Queen Breha’s regrets. Her appointment would take more time. Flori had looked at them with hooded eyes and offered them refreshments and entertainment. 

Dani pops the last nuna nugget in her mouth and follows it up with a swig of Toniray. She grins. She had taken a rain check on Flori’s offer of entertainment. 

That would come if the hours stretched out even more. Bryne and Nola both had perked up at the mention, then settled back down at her question.

“I’m not enough entertainment for you both? I’m wounded,” Dani had said. 

Nola had promptly fallen asleep and just as promptly had taken over most of the couch, until Bryne had shoved her over to the current compromise with her head against his chest.

Dani lifts her hand from Covenant’s chest and runs her fingers through Nola’s dark brown bob. Nola murmurs and pushes her nose into the opening of Covenant’s undertunic, her breathing curling the hairs inside the garment. Her hand slips in as well, twining itself in the slight foliage.

Bryne looks at Dani and rolls his eyes. “I wonder if we’ll be able to wake her when the Queen comes in?” he remarks. 

Dani returns his smile, then takes his hand in hers, moving it to Nola’s head. “I’m sure Breha has had lots of practice at waking her,” she replies. “probably with a brass band.”

Bryne nods, then his eyes grow serious. “Are you okay with Shyla’s decision?” he asks quietly. Dani looks away. 

“You trying to manage me, your Eminence?” she asks, only a hint of sharpness in her tone.

“I would never presume, Electarine-Caretaker,” he replies with a like amount of sharpness. “I’ve told you before. Just because you have the hoodoo and you’re the most loving person in the universe, doesn’t make you immune from being cared for, _ta’in’gere_,” he finishes.

“Oh, don’t pull the ‘sister of the heart’ card with me, bud. I’ve told you and our Fulcrum before that I’m the oldest. I get to boss you both around.” She smirks. _“Trah’gere_,” she adds. 

He laughs gently at the term for a brother of the heart in her birth-tongue. “Yeah, but neither of us listen for shit,” he says.

“Don’t I know it,” she retorts. 

She grows serious as their laughter fades. “I don’t know,” she answers. “I didn’t expect this. I knew she was in deep with the Hutts—she’d made a lot of progress with them as Diktat, but I didn’t expect her to take this path. To submerge into them.”

“I don’t think Rasteen and Dorith gave her much choice.”

“Delilah said that Shyla wasn’t supposed to do the shooting. The Imperial Advisor was more suited to be able to kill someone and get away with it. Or at least put him back in a hole.”

“I know, Dani-love,” he says. He looks down. “What he was about to reveal, neither of them had a lot of choice.” His eyes track up to hers, dark green meeting dark purple. “I just wish that Shyla could’ve not found herself wanted by the Imperials, hiding in Hutt space, if she doesn’t stay dead.

“For you,” he whispers. 

“I’m okay, Bryne. I’ve got my family. There was no guarantee Shyla and I could last. She had her demons and I had mine.”

“Anything I can do for you?” he asks. 

She reaches up and kisses him. “Just do what you’re doing, love,” she says. “Also, make sure that you grab every second with Ahsoka. Just as we will, but you most of all.”

They fall silent, both comfortable. Something comes into her mind. Something that Meglann’s grandmother, Sulen, the archivist of the Electoral Council, had said when she had introduced the whole concept of the Links of the Covenant Chain.

“So is Shyla one of the Others? One to be watched?” she asks. 

He smiles as he thinks of an answer. “I don’t think so,” he says. “She’s an ally, but not part of the Chain.” He strokes her cheek, allowing the backs of his fingers to find the fine hair at the base of her neck. She breathes in at the sensations. 

“As we said, we’re allowed connections outside of the Affirmation. We’re not dead, any of us,” he says. “There’s precedent for it, from the first Age of Uncertain Paths. A Regent who served as an ally to the Covenant, who was able to aid her when the High King proved to be a bigger asshole than even they had thought.”

Dani nods after a moment. “So what about the Others? The Trusted and Untrusted, as I’ve seen them called?” 

“Well, Delilah proved that she could be a candidate, but definitely in the Untrusted category. We’re still not sure of her motivation, except proving she’s not the second coming of the Hag,” he says. 

“And Lassa? You know my thoughts and my situation, but I think that she’s ultimately honorable. We just have to make sure that Meglann can figure out a way to get her out of whatever shit she’s found herself in.” 

Bryne’s eyes grow sad. “If she’s alive,” he says quietly. 

“I know,” she says, moving her hand to his knee. 

“So. Sal,” she says. “You got a second date?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I’m still trying to remember the first one. Any pointers?”

She giggles. “Well, you might want to avoid eating the worm, this time. Keep your wits about you.” She feels a stirring from the other side of him. “Or you might take Nola along. Delilah does like variety.”

Nola reaches up, stretching, and smacking her lips. “Who am I fucking?” she asks, her eyes still closed. 

“Delilah Sal,” Bryne replies. 

Nola settles back down. “Okay. Just so she’s had her shots.” A snore is soon heard again. 

“You know, there is supposedly another space in the Others,” he says. “If you look at the chain, there is a third shade of the tarnished color in the single Link.”

“Who said that?” she asks. 

“It’s in the Concordat. One small description. Nothing ever happened in the original Links. In fact, the Trusted Other was never actually filled. It was just one of the four Links, in another guise.”

“Or it could just be a trick of the light.

Dani looks up as Flori comes in again. “I’m sorry, dears, something has come up. The Queen is still tied up. Should I find one of you another room?”

Bryne grins. “No, dear. We’re a package deal. I’m sure No-no won’t mind if we use her old bed.”

Dani’s heart leaps at his words, at his acknowledgement. She hides her tears with snark. “If we can keep her from hogging the bed.”

“I heard that, twit. You’re so tiny, you might get lost in the covers,” comes Nola’s muffled voice.

“No, she’d never let you lose her,” Bryne says. 

The warmth doesn’t just come from the resonance and the baser emotions, from Dani, as well as Flori. 

Bryne pulls both of them closer to him as the emotion rises. 

_We don’t know where we’re going_, Dani thinks. _But we’ll get there together._


	10. Epilogue : The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path of the present is born in the past.

Breha makes to knock on the plain door. As her hand approaches the wood, it suddenly moves away from her hand. Her own Handmaiden, Flori, smiles sheepishly at her as she steps into the corridor. Breha rolls her eyes, then grins. “I wondered where you got to when I sent you to tell them that I’d be delayed.”

“Sorry, your Majesty,” Flori replies. 

Breha increases the warmth of her smile. She lifts her hand and touches Flori on the cheek as she settles the rainbow mantle over her black hair, with its auburn highlights. “I’m sure you’re not, my girl,” she says. “But it’s fine. You do get some time to yourself, rather than being at the beck and call of a five year old.”

Flori dips her head, closing her eyes. “Thank you, your Majesty,” she says quietly. Breha raises her chin with her finger. “You’re quite welcome. Run along and get some breakfast. It’s warm today. Maybe if I can break away, we can go to the lake and we can take turns throwing Leia in.” 

Flori smiles brightly for a moment, then fades. “Are you alright, your Majesty?” she asks, as her blue eyes track over Breha’s face.

“I’m okay, dear. Just a long night,” Breha replies. She places her hands on Flori’s shoulders and turns her, gently pushing her down the corridor of the Palace.

The door opens again. Bryne Covenant stands there, already showered and dressed, thankfully. He paints that crooked, and sometimes frustrating grin on his face and walks out, pulling the coat of his business suit on as he does. He makes to close the door, but not before Breha catches a glimpse of the bed. A very tall figure and a much shorter figure lie entwined with each other. Breha smiles as she hears gentle snoring from one—most probably the tall one.

Bryne closes the door and dips his head to the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he says. 

“My Lord Keeper,” she replies, using the honorific of an ancient title on her world. One that she had given him after his time as the Peacekeeper-General of that same world. A title not too different from the one that his world had given him. She pulls his arm through hers. “Walk with me, Bryne. There’s breakfast in the atrium.” She smirks. “That is, if you’re not too tired from your exertions. I can call for a hoverchair if you need it.”

Breha is treated to an actual blush from Bryne Covenant, former Jedi and powerful fighter in his own right. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” she says. “Everybody does it. I’ve even been known to do it once in a great while.” She saves his facial temperature by not revealing how much she engages in ‘meetings’ with her Senator.

“I’ve just finished an interesting book on Corellian history,” she says, changing the subject as they move to the Atrium. “About someone who might be your distant ancestor—the first Covenant?”

He is quiet for a moment, then nods. “Inasia Raylan,” he says. “She’s a direct ancestor. Unlike the Diktat-Kings and later Electors of Corellia, the title has stayed in a direct line since that time.” He smiles warmly. “My grandmother, the last Elector—who also held the Covenant’s title, was named for her. It means ‘little hammer’.”

“I get the idea from the vague description of her in the book, the Covenant wasn’t little,” she says. 

“No. Other, less published chronicles put her around our Meglann’s height.” He grins. “A little bit shorter than me. It was her older brother, Inar, who was the ‘big hammer’.”

“What happened to him?” Breha asks. 

Bryne is thoughtful. “The accounts are slim, but there’s a great deal of evidence that he just chucked it all and became a farmer.” His face darkens. “For awhile.”

They come to another, more ornate wooden door. As he goes to open it, Bryne stops. She sees an absolutely peaceful expression flow over his regular features. An instant before a warm smile replaces that expression. 

He opens the door, manages not to rush in. Breha feels him let go of her arm, just as she sees a tall figure standing in front of the atrium windows, bathed in bright sunlight. She smiles as Ahsoka Tano takes him into her arms, squeezing him tightly. 

Breha knows that she should turn away, but she is fascinated by the pair. Her eyes sting as she sees Ahsoka whispering in his ear. She sees the slight twitch of the lekku as he returns the whisper. They break away, then move in for a long, deep kiss. She notices that Ahsoka never closes her eyes while their lips are still melded. Ahsoka rubs her hands, bare from their usual bracers and gloves over the wool of his suit.

Breha manages to keep from laughing as Ahsoka’s hands move down and give a very definite squeeze of his ass. The two figures laugh as his left hand disappears between them.

Ahsoka’s eyes fall on her and grow wide. She shoves him away, then drops her hands to pull her top down over her belly. Breha laughs at the expression on Ahsoka’s face, as well a slight marvel at Covenant’s dexterity. Not many could raise a woman’s top with one hand, while making watching Queens none the wiser.

_Well, mostly none the wiser._

“You asshole,” Ahsoka says. “You knew she was there all the time.”

“I thought you were this powerful space wizard, Runt.” He waves both sets of fingers in a wiggling manner. She punches him in the chest, to his laughter.

Ahsoka turns and bows to Breha. “I’m sorry, your Majesty. Sorry that I gave into an adolescent male’s fascination with female breasts.”

Breha crosses the distance and pulls Ahsoka into her arms. “It’s alright. I’ve an older adolescent at home who has the same fascination.” She allows her eyes to narrow, while still stifling the laughter. “Although you seemed very fascinated with his ass.”

Once again, in the space of about fifteen minutes, the Queen of Alderaan is treated to a powerful warrior blushing, this time in the orange of her skin, as well as the blue of her lekku stripes. She saves this one by pointing at the buffet with its piles of food. She sees Fulcrum revert to a teenager as her eyes fall on the piles of sausage and bacon. 

Breha’s eyes sting once more as she sees the myriad of emotions on Bryne’s face at Ahsoka’s joy. Regret, love, warmth, sadness—all at once in his green eyes and on his mobile features. She sees a desire of a warrior to give his Warrior-Queen everything, from the old story books. 

A Queen as powerful as any warrior from their past lives. She knows that Covenant would say that she is much more powerful than he is.

_The plucky sidekick_, as she’s often heard him refer to himself. A phrase that Ahsoka would dispute wholeheartedly.

After several moments, they are all seated at a table near the view of the snow-capped mountains. Breha sips at her cup of caf. 

Bryne grins. “Be careful, your Majesty. Don’t get your hands and feet near her mouth when there’s pig involved.”

The look that Ahsoka shoots him promises retribution of some sort. The look that he shoots back says that he would welcome the retribution.

Before she is witness to the table being cleared and that ‘retribution’ occurring in front of her, Breha changes the subject. “So, your ancestor, Bryne. The first Covenant and her Links. I see some distinct parallels between you and her, as well as with your own Links.” She touches Ahsoka’s arm. “Especially this one, though in a slightly different fashion. At least in genders.”

Bryne nods to Ahsoka’s curious look. She continues to eat while listening. “The Prime Link was male, Runt,” he says. “Taliesin Arten.” Ahsoka’s eyebrow markings raise at the first name. 

“Yeah. Good ol’ ‘between two worlds again’,” he says. “Although his was further afield as well. No one knew at the time where he came from.”

Breha nods. “Plus the fact that he seemed to have come into the world with a lightsaber,” she says. 

“Bryne, ” Ahsoka says, “I slept through most of your Corellian history lectures, but I remember that the Jedi weren’t necessarily on Corellia for a bit later than a thousand generations.”

“I know, Ahsoka,” he replies. “Especially anyone that had a red colored lightsaber.”

All of them fall silent at this.

The leaden silence is broken by the opening of the door. All three of them smile as Dani and Nola walk into the room, both with sleep-tousled hair and smiles on their faces as they see Ahsoka. 

Ahsoka, for her part, rises with her own broad smile, as she quickly runs over to the pair, sweeping them both into her arms. 

Breha sneaks a glance over at Bryne. She gazes at him, once again unable to put into words a description of the expression on his face. 

After several moments, Dani, Nola, and Ahsoka break free and walk back over to the table. Breha rises herself at Dani and Nola’s bows. She takes Dani into her arms and gives her a kiss on her warm cheek. Fortunately, Dani remembers decorum and doesn’t give her trademark greeting for friends and certain family members of a squeeze of the ass.

Breha is only slightly disappointed, as she fights down the rising warmth and lust from Dani’s empathic resonance—even only set at a slow boil. She looks at Nola over Dani’s shoulder. Dani notices and releases her.

She falls into Nola’s arms, holding her tightly, as the memories of this young woman cascade in her mind—both good and bad. Nola rests her head on Breha’s. “It’s good to see you, my Queen,” Nola says with no hint of the snark that can usually be found in her voice. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Nola—your Grace,” she adds. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, your Majesty. So much. But it was the right thing for me to leave Alderaan, as much as I’m grateful for you and the Senator taking me in.” She looks down. “I learned so much from you both.”

Breha reaches up and touches her cheek. As they pull apart, Nola’s hand remains in hers as they join the others. Breha notes the warm and loving expressions from all three as Nola comes over. 

Nola reaches down and kisses Ahsoka. “So everything went alright with Shyla?” Nola asks.

Breha chides herself at not asking this question from the beginning. She smiles and closes her eyes. _It’s okay to bask in all of this love, Bre_, she thinks to herself. She brings herself back to the present. 

“Yeah,” Ahsoka says. “She’s safe, but we need to figure out some security for her,” she says. Ahsoka looks at Dani. “You okay, sweetie?”

Dani says nothing; she merely nods and smiles, reaching over and taking Ahsoka’s hand, squeezing it. She gets up and walks over to the buffet. Breha makes a note to call for more food, having seen Flori demolish several plates before, with the high metabolism of their people.

“I guess we’ll work on it,” Breha says. “I get the idea from talking to her, though, that she doesn’t want any. Either that, or she’s already made her own arrangements.”

She looks down. “She’s already transmitted some information. Something we need to start working on. It’s why I couldn’t see you last night. I was waiting on one more piece.”

Dani returns, a piece of bacon in her mouth, from the high-piled platter. “What’s the plan?” she asks between bouts of chewing. 

“We’ll continue to work on getting Lassa back, first,” Ahsoka says firmly, looking at Bre, “but I think we can multi-task.”

Breha nods in agreement. She looks at Dani. “I don’t want to speak for Draq’, but I think you and Nola can work together.”

Dani shakes her head. “I’d love to, but I’ve got a personal commitment that’s come up. My cousin has posted the banns. She and Boman and Kanaly will be married in the second festival month. It’s important to them; we have to find their youngest daughter, in order for the bonding to take place, with any hope of succeeding.”

Bryne nods. “Yeah. I’ve been working on that. We traced her to the undercity on Coruscant, but Felucia happened and I wasn’t able to follow-up.” He looks at Dani. “Could they postpone? They’ve waited a year or so?”

Dani shakes her head. “No. Tradition says that the Second Festival month is the most fortunate for their family.” Bryne nods after a second, but she sees a look pass between them. A look that says there is something more.

“Okay,” Dani says between inhales of the food. “After what happened last time, I’d prefer to keep you off of Coruscant, Bryne. I can go.”

Bryne is thoughtful. He looks at Nola. “We may be combining the two problems, according to what Meglann told Nola.”

Nola nods. “Danalaan was on the _Opportunity_. She and a Corellian joined shortly before the voteout.

“Okay,” Dani says. “I guess I’m headed to join ‘glann. But I need to get to Zeltros, as I can. I’m the Proctor for the bonding.”

Bryne looks at Breha’s questioning look. “She facilitates the whole thing, along with the Officiant.”

Breha nods. “I agree that this is a priority. Zeltros will be a valuable ally. From what I’ve read, if this bonding fails to go off at the appointed time, Boman and Kanaly could withdraw from public life for a while. We can’t really afford that.”

Dani smiles at her, nodding at her knowledge. “They could, but I doubt it. They might withdraw to only the most important things, at least for a year or two. It might delay any work with the movement.”

Breha turns to Nola. “Nola, dear, I’ve a problem for you. Something that I might need some of your Imperial connections for.”

Nola purses her lips. “I may have burned that bridge, my Queen, with this last job. Rae thinks that I used her and her ship.” She looks down. “I kinda did, but we needed to get to Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka, who has remained silent for the most of the meal, sipping her caf and listening, reaches over and moves her hand to Nola’s cheek. She strokes downward, then pulls Nola to her. Her lips touch Nola’s. After a second, Nola responds to the kiss, smiling against Ahsoka’s lips. Breha smiles to herself.

“I’m sorry, No-no,” Ahsoka says. 

Nola rests her forehead against hers. “It’s okay.” She looks over at Breha. “There was no guarantee that I could keep a friendship with an Imperial. I thought she was different, though.”

Ahsoka turns to the Queen. “Your Majesty, if you have nothing else for me, I’ll go help Meglann.”

Breha nods. “I don’t, except for you to get some rest. Maybe see Leia while you’re here.” She looks at Flori, who has entered the room and signaled. “Perhaps you and Flori can take her to the lake. Nola and I’ll meet about this, with somebody else.” She shifts her look to Bryne. “You too, milord,” she says. A smirk flows over her “I’m quite sure that Leia will take a nap for awhile.”

Ahsoka looks at Bryne with such a hungry look that Breha’s smirk fades to a warm, sad smile. Bryne grins at her. “I think that we can find some time without wasting yours and Leia’s, your Majesty.” He gives her a hooded look. “I’m sure you have more important things to deal with than worrying about whether I take Fulcrum to the moon.”

Breha and Ahsoka share an eyeroll. “Nothing right this minute,” Breha replies to the giggles of Nola and Dani. “I can multitask. Besides, I’ll defer to my lady Tano as to whether you’re more than mildly entertaining.” She winks at Flori. “Perhaps you can get some help.”

Both Ahsoka and Bryne’s jaws drop. Breha turns away. 

Nola grins at her, as the two walk out, hand in hand, with Flori following. “Well played, your Majesty. It takes a special skill to shut those two up.”

Breha bows her head. “A great compliment, coming from you, Last Word,” she says dryly. She looks at Dani, expecting another comment as Nola blushes.

Dani smiles, the wisdom of the oldest (by two months) of these idiots showing through in her silence.

* * *

Breha and Nola walk down yet another corridor in the Palace. When she had first moved here, she had marveled at the number of halls, warrens, and alcoves that made up her new home. She grins. _Public housing._

She brings herself back to the present and its problems presenting themselves. She stops at a random bookshelf. Nola looks at her curiously. Breha runs her fingers along the spines of the well-used volumes.

None of them are dusty, even on this level. Breha’s fingers touch one in particular. She shakes her head at the title of the tome. _Twisted Paths: Library Science on Alderaan_. Nola snorts beside her. Breha shares a grin with her former Hand, then closes her eyes, wondering if anything else will crop up in the next hours after this meeting. She feels Nola grasp her hand and squeeze it. Breha opens her eyes and looks at her. Nola smiles encouragingly.

Breha exhales, then pulls the book down to the perpendicular of the others. The shelf slide into the left side of the wall. Breha walks in, followed by Nola. Her eyes adjust to the slightly brighter light; the warmth provided by the fireplace. She feels the wall return to its previous position.

She walks over and takes one of the inhabitants of the room’s hand and then pulls her into an embrace.

“Your Majesty,” says her Grace, Dainet Weaselton. She bows as they break away. 

Breha turns to Nola, pulling her forward. “I believe you know Lady Vorserrie,” she says smiling.

The woman smiles. “Only from the times she testified before the Council of Graces. I got to be entertained when she would eviscerate some pompous asshole’s questions about certain expenditures.”

Nola blushes, then looks away. “I never had to do that to you, Lady Weaselton,” she says out of the corner of her mouth. 

“That’s because her Grace had some inside information,” says the man standing at the mantelpiece staring at the fire. “Comes from being the Librarian of the Mother.”

Breha sees Nola’s dark eyes narrow, at the tall, craggy-faced figure. “Maybe you shouldn’t be throwing words like that around, old man,” Nola says to the Dragon. She disengages her hand from the Queen and walks over to Draq’ Bel Iblis. She doesn’t hesitate, moving into his arms. 

Both Dainet and Breha are treated to the sight of Draq’ Bel Iblis placing his chin on Nola’s head. He is one of the few people tall enough to accomplish that movement. He caresses her hair as she rests against him.

“I think I’m allowed, No-no,” he says quietly. “Especially in the audience chamber of the Librarian.” He grins “Especially since Alderaan’s de-facto intelligence service is family to me.”

Nola breaks free and stares up at him. She turns her head to Dainet. Her eyes narrow again as she looks to and from the two.

Breha smiles as Nola’s eyes catch the slight resemblance. Especially around the eyes—a darker, warmer blue than Draq’s, but with the same intensity when needed. 

Her own Dragon look.

Nola grins. “So you’re his sister?” she asks. 

Dainet smiles. “Half-sister,” she replies. The smile turns devilish. “One of a few. Levon Bel Iblis unwittingly created a very handy intelligence network in the galaxy.”

Breha nods. _Not just in this generation, either_, she thinks. Her mind’s eye focuses on a smiling half-Zeltron that she had just left.

“So what have you got for me, Dainet?” Breha asks. 

“Draq’ actually has it, my Queen. Something that I’ll let him speak to. I’m just involved because I told the old bastard I would curse him and watch his balls shrivel up if it’s anything that you and the Viceroy might need to know,” she says. Breha smiles at Draq’s discomfiture. 

“We won’t talk too much about the source, Dainet,” he says. 

She nods. “I understand. In spite of what you said, I appreciate you looping me in.” She grins. “Your balls are safe, for now.” She turns and leaves them alone, to Breha’s surprise.

“Good to know,” Breha says dryly. “What is it, Dragon?”

Draq’ takes a deep breath then returns to his seat on the sofa. Breha smiles again as Nola sits next to him, pulling her legs up under her and resting her hand on his arm. 

“During the war, Corellia, as you might know from Bail, didn’t remain fully neutral. We weren’t interested in joining the Seps, although some of our outer planets did—after listening to Dooku’s patter.” He narrows his eyes at Breha, then smiles. “We were just going to do it on our terms. We weren’t too impressed by Palpatine’s either, thinking they were two sides of the same coin.” He looks down. “Turns out we were right,” he says in a near whisper. 

Breha doesn’t answer, but nods. After a moment he continues. “Shyla did a lot of good in keeping the galaxy, as well as Corellia, safe. She did enter into a relationship with certain Corellian smugglers, one known simply as the Guild. It was kind of an offshoot of her dealings with Geddan the Hutt. As Hutts go, he’s their version of a decent sort. He won’t engage in slavery, but he has no problem dealing in weapons and spice. He came across information on some sort of weapon that Lok Durd was developing.”

Breha sees Nola look away at the mention of the name. Draq’ notices as well, lifts his arm from her hand and pulls her in close to his chest. As if a father would do for a daughter. Nola rests her face there, but Breha can tell that she is listening. 

“He knew Durd’s reputation as a designer of horrible weapons. He had the Guild let Shyla know.” He narrows his eyes. “She took action without my knowledge. The Guild somehow managed to get the weapon—which turned out not to be as horrible as his last for civilians. It was a part of something that could’ve been bad for the Republic’s navy. Some sort of a gravity well generator.”

Nola lifts up and looks at him. “It could blockade hyperspace.”

Breha matches Draq’s smile of pride. “Got it in one, No-no,” he says. 

“What happened to it?”

“Have no damned idea, Bre,” he replies matter of factly. 

“The Guild?” Nola asks. 

“We don’t know. We just know that it disbanded. The Project, known as Xerus, was never seen again.”

They all are silent at this. 

“So what has Shyla found?” Breha asks. “It’s only been a few days.”

“This might’ve been high on her list of things to make right,” he replies. “She’s found a connection, through Geddan, of someone who might have some knowledge of who has the damned thing.”

At that Nola stands up. “So where am I headed?” she asks. Breha lets out a breath. 

“Raxus Secundus,” Draq’ says. “A source will be there, one who owes Geddan something.”

After a moment, Nola nods. “Been there recently. Not one of my favorite memories.” She turns to Breha. “You mentioned that you might need me to see if Rae can help?”

“I don’t know about help. Sources have told us that the _Resurgent_ has left the Smugglers’ Moon. It’s headed to Raxus as well. These sources tell me it’s not a coincidence.”

Nola nods. Draq’ stands up as Nola walks towards Breha. Breha feels herself engulfed in Nola’s arms, eschewing protocol. “You be careful, Nola. Don’t think you have to prove something to me, or anybody else.” She looks pointedly at Draq’. He smiles and walks over to Nola, who releases the Queen. He kisses her on her forehead. “What she said, No-no. I need someone to be a pain in my ass, to keep my life from being boring.”

As the door closes, Breha turns to Draq’. “Please tell me you have some backup for her.”

“She’ll have Tamsin and her crew with her. In spite of her history of running off at the mouth, Tamsin’s good in a fight. I think that Bryne’ll be headed there in a few days. He’ll take another route, one that’ll get him there about the same time as she and the ImpStar.

“Plus, I’ve got somebody else who’ll look after her. As well as figure out something to protect our wayward Diktat.” He grins. “Our Regent.”

Breha takes in what he has said, especially in giving Shyla her new codename. She has an idea of who that ‘somebody’ might be, as well as his relationship.” _It might be time to let the old Dragon know what she knows_, she thinks.

“Well, I’m pretty sure that your older ‘relation’, the one that nobody’s supposed to know about is working on something to protect them both,” she says, ignoring his surprised, then thunderous look. A perverse part of her is proud of the fact that she has surprised him. 

He continues to stare at her, wondering if she will disappear in a puff of ash. Finally, he calms. “It’s dangerous for that connection to be known. Everybody else thinks he’s a murderous spice lord and minion of Black Sun.” He holds up his hand before she can speak. “I know, Bre. You can keep a secret.” He turns his head and kisses her palm. 

“I think he’s already working on both, as well as the Xerus problem. There’s something about this whole thing that seems like it could be more dangerous than just some sort of gravity well.” His eyes turn devilish. “I think that he might’ve convinced someone else that their path may be different.” He touches her datapad with the symbol of his world on it. “Maybe an Untrusted Other.”

Breha nods. She picks up the datapad. “About that. There’s some things I’m not clear on from this account of the First Covenant,” she says. 

He picks up his drink. “I know. That account only takes you just up to the Battle of Whyren’s Deep. It doesn’t go into much after that.”

She nods. “Yeah. But I’m a little fuzzy on the timeline. It keeps with the ‘thousand generations’ and everything, but from what I’ve read of galactic history, we were already transiting the stars. The Jedi, or their ancestors had lightsabers. It even makes reference to Arten’s red one. Plus, the Old Republic started up sometime around that time. Corellia was a part of it.”

He nods. “Yeah. It was only another millenium or so before Coruscant recontacted their lost ones.”

She stares at him. He grins, then looks at the remnants of his drink. “We don’t talk about it much. A couple of thousand years before that story, the first Corellians were exiled from Coruscant on the world-ships.”

Breha listens intently. “I guess even then we were too independent-minded. There were some humans already on the Eldest Brother. Apparently our ancestors made the decision to coexist. The Coruscanti had left them only the most basic of weapons and tools to survive. He grins. “Nine ships. Nine continents.”

She nods with understanding. “The Hells.”

“Yep.”

“But there was a gap between Whyren’s Deep and the first year of Certainty,” she says.

He nods. “Yes. Garm got too ambitious after about twenty years. He listened to whisperers, including his son’s.

“He betrayed Inasia. They defeated her forces about twenty years later.”

Breha releases her breath. “What happened?” she asks, dreading the answer.

“According to the accounts, Inasia was never found. Neither was Arten. According to Garm, he executed the other Links after the battle.”

Breha looks at him, curious at his doubtful tone. “What?” she asks. 

“It was proven to be untrue, as they showed up later when Alexa was crowned as Diktat-Queen. The All-Highest of Corellia. Especially since Inasia’s son was the one who lead the forces that defeated Garm.”He grins. “Strangely there are no accounts of that battle that can be relied upon. Even Delae, who wrote everything down is silent. But the ones that have survived, said that his army was destroyed by intense lightning, as well by someone wielding a green blade of light.”

“A woman.”

* * *

As the bookshelf-door closes and she is alone. Breha thinks about the first Covenant-Hope and what she had learned about the amazing young woman, and her Links. 

One who had united a third of a continent by the time she was twenty-three. One who had united the entire continent by the time she was thirty. 

One whose son had united a world in the next generation—or at least finished what she had started. 

Breha, Queen of Alderaan thinks of her Paladins. At least four young women, each remarkable in their own way, who with a young man uncertain in his own destiny, would help bring light to a galaxy. 

They would help bring an age of certainty back to their worlds and others. She picks up her datapad again.

**Year 1, Age of Certainty (1 AC)**

The hooded watcher observes the ceremony from the distance in the sacred woods of Cosainglas—the Shield of Green and of the West. Her heart beats faster as the young man—a young man with the dark skin of his father/second mother and the straw-like hair of the unknown woman that had birthed the watcher, approaches the woman kneeling in the pure white gown. A woman only a few years older than the watcher. The young man draws the hand and a half sword from his belt as he approaches her.

The watcher’s heart doesn’t beat faster because of any fear that she is about to witness an execution, even as the woman bows her head. 

It accelerates because of the ceremony represents the culmination of nearly thirty years of hopes, dreams, losses, and blood. 

She smiles at the familiarity of the sword as it moves downward, its flat approaching the woman. _Anaan_. A childish, nonsense name from a young girl. A name from fairy stories.

She releases her breath as the blade gently taps on one shoulder, then the others. The young man sheathes his blade, then takes up a simple gold and silver circlet, with three jewels in the center. 

One for faith, one for justice, and one for power. 

He places it on the woman’s graying mass of dark curls, tamed for the moment and drawn back from her medium dark-skinned face. 

“Arise, Alexa. Diktat-Queen of All of the Continents,” the young man intones. “Elector and Guarantor of the Peoples.” She rises and he drops to his knees as the assembled kings, queens, dukes, and other nobles do. 

Alexa smiles as she touches the strawlike hair. “Arise, Danaeset, Covenant-Hope. Protector of All of the Continents.” Her smile broadens. “Son of my greatest friend. My inspiration.” She chokes. “Inasia.”

Alexa Draighean looks up. For a moment, the watcher thinks that her gray eyes stare right at her. Her Grace’s lips quirk upward slightly on one side. 

She picks up an object—an object from the Silver Hills, the place of her family’s birth. A piece of plain dark wood—a cane fashioned from the trees that Alexa’s family draws its name from, in the Middle tongue. 

Inasia Raylan, once known as the Covenant-Hope in her own right, turns away. As she does, her heart twists in pain at the thought of one who was no longer here. One who had sacrificed his very sanity, as well as all that was good to defeat Garm.

Not on this world, at least. Not in the next either, but one among the stars. She closes her eyes as she sees his warm green eyes above hers. As she sees the crimson blade of light in his hands. 

She sees his fierce anger as he turns away from her. 

Her hand touches the hilt hanging at her side. A hilt with no visible blade, but at the touch of the side, would unsheathe an energy shaft of purest green.

She begins to limp away. Her time is done. As she does, she feels three gazes on her. She turns back and looks at the three other figures standing near the new Diktat. They nod at her, each of them as dear to her as the next. 

They each wear a gold signet around their necks. The Diktat’s Electoral Council—the ones sworn to help her safeguard the rights of all Corellians. 

She smiles to herself. They will ensure that the woman on the dais is what they all had hoped for, as well as had validated. 

A just and wise ruler.

Inasia looks at the cane in her friend’s hand, as she thinks of the meaning of Alexa’s family name. 

_Blackthorn._


End file.
